


The Man and The Beast

by WhiteRoseOfRivendell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Beauty and the Beast, Crossover, Fantasical happenings, It's really not bad, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Magic, Not really Beauty and the Beast, Rage, Really light dubious non-con, The sex later makes up for it, pre-Series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 22:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10173932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteRoseOfRivendell/pseuds/WhiteRoseOfRivendell
Summary: Once upon a time, in a not so faraway land, an extraordinary man lived in a cozy flat. Although he had everything his mind desired, he was capricious, calculating, and often unkind. But then one day a realtor came to the flat and offered him a singular case in exchange for his deductive services. Repulsed by her fantastic story, he sneered at first at the case. But she assured him that nothing out of the ordinary could be happening, and the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. So the man took the case and left behind his beloved 221B. Soon, he would find that things are not always as they seem and that a fantastic truth can hide in the most unlikely of places. The search will throw him into rage, despair, and angst, but his success may cost him his life. Let it be asked, now and for generations to come, who could ever learn to love a beast?





	1. Once Upon a Time

[](http://s345.photobucket.com/user/WhiteRose1013/media/40A56ECD-4A31-4958-83DC-BBC8CDBB973D_zpsg2wu6xqf.jpeg.html)

The shadows splayed out like vicious spooks upon the walls as curtains of cerulean velvet overlapped the wildly dancing sheers. The enormous French doors that climbed nearly to the ceiling had not been closed properly. And thus, when the wooden door to the room had been slammed without so much as a thought, the doors had flown open, allowing a torrent of chilled air and dry leaves to enter unchecked. The light of the moon had been the only illumination to accompany the few small candle-lit sconces, which promptly blew out with the opening of the balcony doors. The room played in the darkness. Paintings and tapestries that were only half hung and in terrible disrepair knocked against the stone walls. Dust billowed from torn down draperies as they fell from the overturned chairs they rested upon. It muted the space, made the blues, reds, and golds of the decor seem to wash away. A desk sat not far from the heavy, carved wood door that marked the entrance to the chaotic room. It held a ream of papers and a host of pens that had been moved by the initial burst of wind. Now, as air and rain continuously exploded through the curtains, it caught the whole of the stack and sent them flying up into the gale. The bed curtains and coverlet rustled as some of the papers settled upon them, and their newly-conscious occupant.

John struggled with the crude rope above his head. It was tied with knots fit for military inspection and he could not free his hands from it. They were losing a bit of feeling as well and he inched further up on the bed to attempt to regain all dexterity. His hands had been tied together with a single tie to the headboard. His feet had been bound as well, but luckily they were not tied to any part of the bed. If he could get one hand free, that would be all he would need to untie the rest and make his escape. He needed to get out of there as soon as possible. There was certain danger here and Sherlock needed his help. He was sure that the consulting detective was still in the house, but what concerned him was where and in what state. John had awoken with a mild headache, most likely due to whatever concoction was slipped to him earlier. His head was still a trifle fuzzy, but he was focused now and working as fast as he could. His heels dug into the mattress and his fingers ached with strain. Getting out was what mattered; getting to safety was what mattered. 

The rope loosened, and his right thumb slipped through into the nest of rough spirals.

~~~~~

John arrived home on a Sunday evening. The door to the flat had been left unlocked, though he knew Sherlock never bothered with mundane details of that nature. He called out to his flatmate expecting at the very least a mumble or mid-conversational quip. According to Sherlock, there were many times John was meant to be at home, as he continuously talked to him throughout the day. The lack of response did not appear to matter, but his presence was what the consulting detective seemed to favor. John had not decided whether that made him feel more appreciated or less. This night, however, there was no response at all. John walked in and set his bag on the floor, hung his coat, and looked around. The flat was by no means tidy, but it did look as if it was undisturbed. An experiment of a sort that John did not fancy becoming acquainted with, was taking up residence on their kitchen table. Sherlock's room was empty, the bed made, clothes hung with precision in his closet. The flat was dead silent.

No matter, he thought. 

John took his bag to his room and began to unpack, musing over the past few days. The visit with Harry had gone rather well. Though it was her birthday, she stuck to cola and water. She really seemed to be giving it her best shot at sobriety. He had actually enjoyed some of the time he had spent with her. The sparkling smile and flip of her dirty blond tresses reminded him of when they were children at play in the yard. Harry always got them into trouble. She had always had a plan, and a subsequent joke when said plan did not work out to their benefit. This time, there was no plan. This visit had been about doing what was best and following a mellow schedule. They sat, they joked, they watched nostalgic movies on the telly. It had been a very calm few days, not at all the norm for most visits, and John had not minded in the least. In this case, not at all the norm was just perfect. In the end, he had hugged his sister tightly and wished her the happiest of birthdays as he left to return to 221B Baker St. What he had not expected was an empty flat when he got there.

Before he had left, an older woman, most likely in her early fifties had come to seek their services. Her greying hair, precisely curled, did not move as she spoke animatedly to Sherlock regarding the house that she was charged with selling. She was a real estate agent specializing in fine vintage homes. This particular home was, in all reality, a castle. It was built a few centuries before any of them were a twinkle in their parent's eyes. The grounds were expansive and the castle itself boasted twenty rooms, including a ballroom, library, and a formal dining room. Sitting north of London in Buckinghamshire, it was a country estate surrounded by aged trees and a dense forest. If you were not looking for it, you might miss it all together. The gates were partially hidden from the road. Overgrown brush had sprung up in the absence of live-in owners and staff who would normally care for it. The wrought iron had stood the test of time begrudgingly. Locked with a chain it was, but with the slightest chiding it would give way and bend to the intruder's will, for it no longer held the inclination to deny passage. She now held the keys to the grand estate, but could not seem to give them away. She had gone on to tell the pair how the rumor in the nearby village was that there was a curse on the house. Ten murders had been recorded there since its conception in the 1700s, all with strange circumstances. Some victims were found alone with no trace of a weapon, others were deemed a murder-suicide. However, the house had been found each time with signs of struggle and items shattered. Windows would be broken and curtains would be torn from their rails; a general disarray would be prevalent throughout the house. The odd commonality between all of the cases were that the suicide victims and the single murders were all found lying alone with no evidence of fatal bodily harm. Only the secondary victims showed signs of trauma, being brutally murdered by the primary victim. All of the primary victims were male and displayed only superficial scratches and bruises. Their bodies were found hunched, hair grown long and unkempt. Their hands gripped the air in front of their chests like claws and a solitary red rose was wound in between their fingertips. Each appeared to have died in pain, but there was no record of how. Of course, the earlier murders would not have been investigated in depth as the forensics of the time were practically nonexistent.

The house had eventually become known as haunted. It stood alone, dark, and empty. The stories of ghosts and goblins inhabiting the manor and surrounding woods kept the locals far away, and the murders became nothing more than history and rumor. The manor was presently owned by a family that had inherited it from the previous owner, who also had refused to live there. As far as the realtor knew, they had hosted a few large parties at the location, but it was becoming too expensive to keep it in even the slightest state of repair. They were seeking help in dismissing the rumor that it was haunted. That the murders were nothing more than coincidences, more likely resulting from living a secluded lifestyle or issues of mental instability. If there was an actual issue with the manor or property, such as a natural phenomenon or defect that would be causing the abnormalities in behaviour, she would need to know that as well. Over the years, contractors and surveyors had been called upon to evaluate the property, each time coming up with nothing. Sherlock was normally not keen to accept a case that dealt with something as asinine as haunting lore, however the details of the series of murders presented a challenge. It was out of the norm, peculiar even. He decided to accept and leave for Buckinghamshire the next day. The realtor handed him the keys, stating that he could take as long as needed, within reason, and that the house was stocked in case he would like to stay there during the investigation. After handing over her contact information, she left with a smile of relief on her face.

"Come John, it seems we have a haunting to debunk," Sherlock said. He started toward his room.

"Sorry, you're going to have to debunk on your own. Give my best to the ghosts of yesteryear," John sat on the couch and opened a magazine. Sherlock just gave him a confused stare. It was the one he always gave when John was not wanting to do what he wanted him to do. It said to him, 'John, why? You're my blogger. Why would you not be there?' He knew the look well and often he caved in to the puppy dog eyes, but this time he stood his ground, "I told you, I'm going to visit Harry. It's her birthday and she's having a go at being back on the horse."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I know, it may not last, but I want to support her and I haven't been to see her in over a year. You'll just have to figure out how to get along without me," he grinned and pretended to go back to reading the magazine, which he really had no interest in.

"You're really not coming?"

"No."

Sherlock looked down at the floor momentarily, "Fine. I will see you when you return then," he turned on his heel and stalked off toward his room.

"Yeah, I'll see you when you return. Twenty quid you can't solve it before the weekend," he called after him. 

"Won't take that long," he called back from his room pragmatically.

John smiled. He liked to tease Sherlock, even if it rarely got any reaction. Still, it passed the time when the consulting detective was in between cases and on the rampage, or in times such as these when John was feeling mischievous. He put down the magazine and walked up to his own room to start packing.

Now having returned back to the flat, John thought about the scene that had taken place the week earlier. He had joked to Sherlock about the case taking a while, but he did not expect him to not have solved it a week later. He finished unpacking his bag, throwing his dirty laundry in the hamper and putting away his various personal items. He went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, still wondering why Sherlock had not returned. Perhaps he had and was just out on new case. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and texted.

Back home. What happened with the country estate case?

Send.

There was no immediate reply.

Turning, cup of tea in hand, he walked over to the couch and sat down to watch some telly. He flipped through the channels absentmindedly, trying to concentrate on finding a show, but his thoughts went back to Sherlock. 

He's fine, he thought to himself, if he doesn't show up, I'll ring Lestrade tomorrow.

The rest of the day passed slowly.

By the following evening, John was becoming slightly anxious. There was still no sign of Sherlock and he had not so much as received a text from him since the day after John had left to visit his sister. And that text was only an undisguised attempt to bait him to come out to the manor. John rang up Lestrade to see if he had heard anything or set Sherlock on another case. He had not heard from Sherlock since the week prior either. He was wondering a bit as well about the lack of communication. Normally, Sherlock would seek him out when he became too bored to be in the same room with himself and needed a distraction. John told Lestrade about the case he had taken recently. John could practically hear the DI's eyes widen, the surprise evident in his voice. He had seen the castle on a reality show a long time ago. It had depicted the location as extremely haunted and detailed it's macabre history.

"When it was built," Lestrade recounted, "I don't know, in the 1700s? Anyway, a family of rank owned it; a mother, a father, and their only son, plus their staff lived there. The story goes that the parents died and left the son with only the attendants. Well, being secluded, wealthy, and having a wait staff, he got spoiled, selfish, and all that. Somehow, he gets engaged, but on the eve of their wedding, he goes crazy and kills his fiancé. Not long after, the servants found him dead as well. The story says that some of the staff witnessed him at the door earlier that week speaking to an old beggar woman. Though the night was dark and the sky filled with thunder, he refused the old woman a place to stay. The accounts say his voice was filled with disgust, though that was not uncommon for the self-serving young man. The woman had then offered him a rose in return for lodging; it appeared to be all she had to give. The young lord laughed and threw the rose out into the rain. Then they see this bright light, right? And they could swear they heard another woman speaking, as if she was putting a curse on the man. When the door slammed shut, the force of the wind blew out the surrounding candles. Though dark, the servants saw their Lord as some sort of beast. He covered his face and ran to his room. After that, no one saw him alive again."

John stared blankly, "You know that's rubbish," he replied after a moment and leaned back in his chair, "What kind of crap telly are you watching?" He laughed.

"I'm just saying, it's not a place I would want to investigate, much less stay there as a guest," Lestrade said.

John mulled that over, a bit of concern rising in his chest. He shoved it back down, ignoring the lump that now sat in his stomach, "All right, thanks. I'll find him. I'm sure he's fine."

Another day went by with no communication. Sherlock would not answer texts nor calls to his phone. Or perhaps he couldn't answer. John did not want to overreact, however this was strange behaviour. He always answered John. As a last resort, he contacted Mycroft. As obnoxious as he was, he could still prove himself useful at times. Indeed, after a short time waiting for a return call, Mycroft let John know that Sherlock was still at the country estate of questionable history, as suspected. Searching the desk, he found the address of the manor. It was in Bledlow; not a terribly long trip. He decided that he would go to find Sherlock. Even if the situation turned out to be nothing, at least he might be able to help solve the case. John called up the nearest car rental and was soon on his way out to the country.

Bledlow itself was small and quaint. The rolling, green hills proved to be a most serene backdrop for his drive and he felt more at ease because of it. Houses became few and far between and if one looked off the side of the road, tall grasses and meandering streams would be there to greet tiring eyes. It was getting to be evening when John arrived in the town and a cold drizzle had begun. He stopped in at the local pub to get a bite to eat, not to mention inquire around if anyone had seen his elusive flatmate. He walked in, shaking the slight dampness from his jacket and hanging it on the iron coat rack. Turning from the door with the intention to walk to the bar and sit, he noticed the whole of the pub staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably, but smiled and nodded.

"Good evening," he said briefly and continued on to the closest seat at the end of the polished wood counter. He sat and attempted to ignore the looks and whisperings of the room. This was, after all, a small town and he was an outsider. He understood, but that did not make it any less awkward.

"Good evening, what can I get for you?" The barkeep asked. He was a tall, average looking man with blond hair swept back from his face. His green eyes told many stories, and his full lips were turned up in a friendly smile. John liked him immediately.

"I'll have..." John began, but was cut off abruptly.

"Are you looking for someone, friend?" Another tall man, with hair black as pitch called out boorishly from a large leather bound chair near the fireplace. He was partially facing the fire which outlined his muscular form and made the shine of his boots prominent in front of the ashes of the hearth.

John turned his head, annoyed at the ill-mannered interruption, and quipped, "I don't believe that is any of your business," he then turned back and addressed the bartender, "I'll have a pint and the fish sandwich with crisps, if you have them."

The bartender smiled, nodded, and walked away to place the order and pour the beer. The man who had called from the chair now got up, revealing the totality of his form. He was quite large, the kind of man you would expect to eat a dozen eggs in the morning. He wore a red v-neck shirt that was pulled tight over his biceps. Obviously, he was someone who enjoyed working out; probably more for narcissistic purposes than health. His face was clean shaven with a strong jaw and his teeth shone white as he smirked from across the room. John ignored the presumptuous man who was now advancing upon him.

"What happens in this town is my business and you're not from around here," he said, now only a few feet away from where John sat. The onlookers sat and watched silently from their various perches and seating.

John sighed and turned once again to face the man. He leaned in and in a low voice answered, "Look, I am not interested in your bravado nor do I feel the slightest hint of intimidation. I don't see any point in this continuing."

"You're with that odd fellow. The one with the curly hair and the cheekbones that came in here not long ago," an older man sitting down the bar piped up, "What was his name?"

"Sherlock," the bartender answered, not looking up from the computer screen.

"He was here?" John asked.

The man in red answered him, "Yeah, he came in a week or two ago asking about the manor house on the outskirts of town. He said he was investigating it. No one has seen him since."

John's chest tightened. Sherlock was here. For one reason or another, he had not solved the case, but he had also failed to contact John for backup. It was strange of him to not answer his phone, but perhaps the service in the area was not good. He checked his phone. Three bars, not bad. It was already six o'clock though and he did not relish driving in the dark, but he'd rather have the peace of mind knowing everything was ok. And the townsfolk were proving to be less than friendly. He had only been there a matter of minutes and he felt he had already out-stayed his welcome.

His dinner arrived then. The barkeep placed the warm plate on the counter where John sat, "Thank you," he said and then turned back to the quick-tempered man in the red shirt, "Well, now you know my business, so you can feel better about walking back to that chair and leaving me to it."

John's smile meant no nonsense and the man bristled, "You need a lesson in manners..." he went to grab John's shirt, but was stopped by a pretty young lady with white blond hair and full red lips. Her matching red dress was feminine, if a bit low cut, and she curled around the man's arm as she spoke.

"Gaston, leave him to his meal. Come sit back with us," she coaxed, looking at him from under thick, mascara-laden eyelashes, "We want to hear about your last hunting trip..."

Gaston narrowed his eyes at John, but looked back to the young lady at his side. He grinned, took her arm, and lead her back to where he had previously been sitting. As John's eyes followed them, he noticed there were two more young women already sat by the imposing leather chair. He had not noticed them when he had entered. Each looked identical to the woman in red, with shiny blond hair tied back into a pony tail and pouting red lips. These women were dressed in similar dresses, only one was green and one was yellow. Triplets then. They fawned over Gaston and scooted as close as possible to him as he sat. It was a bit odd. John just shook his head at the scene before him and proceeded to tuck in to his food.

Before he left, he made sure to get directions to the manor from the bartender, just in case his phone quit on him. Of course, in doing so, he had to listen to the story of the curse over the house and a sharp warning to keep on his toes about it. He determined that it was most likely something that all the people of the town knew and told to unsuspecting travelers either for a bit of fun, or to drum up some tourist business. He had heard the story however, and was anxious to get on the road. John thanked the bartender, stole a quick glance at Gaston who was now in the middle of a rousing hunting story, and quietly left the pub.


	2. A Castle Far, Far Away

The road that lead to the castle was dark and the ancient, looming trees made the way seem that much more ominous. He drove through the woods, attempting to see where the obscure driveway began, for it was set off of the side of the rural road and his GPS had indeed failed due to lack of signal. After quite some time, and a turn around or two, he finally managed to find the entrance. It was probably once a grand entrance to the property, but brush and trees had taken it over and now it barely fit the little rental car. The wrought iron gates climbed up toward the dark winter sky and John craned his neck to look up to the top as he stood before them. Heavy they were, but opened relatively easily with a loud screech to accompany them as he pulled.

He drove up a winding road that seemed unending after his long journey. Finally, he turned a corner and the grand manor was displayed before him. It was positively medieval. He half expected a crash of lightning to cascade down behind it for all its gothic temper. Moonlight shone upon spires that crowned the towers jutting up from the massive dwelling. The trees did not grow close to the house, in fact they seemed to shy away from it. Gardens were visible surrounding the edifice and vines had grown up the dark stone walls, perhaps to keep them company in their loneliness . A throng of red rose bushes framed the entry and spread out like soldiers circling their captive. It was impressive, but with a hint of melancholy, just like the gates he had come through. Once, it must have been the grandest home in the vicinity. Now it was barely kept up, devoid of the care and love a home needs to survive weather and time. 

John pulled his car around to the front; the driveway made a large circle before the structure. He did not see Sherlock's car, but perhaps there was a garage around the back, he thought. Being that there was a limited amount of light and he was becoming a bit fatigued, he decided this would be fine for the moment. He stopped the engine and got out. Climbing the stairs to the door, he looked up to the windows of the manor. Indeed, light could be seen in a few of them, announcing the presence of someone. He hoped it was Sherlock and he would not be disturbing some caretaker. Although, it was fairly late for anyone to be taking care of the chores, and where else would Sherlock be if not here? He raised the large knocker, fashioned in the image of a gargoyle, and let it fall. It made a resounding noise that he was sure could be heard for miles. However, crashes of iron in the dark notwithstanding, no one answered the door. He then tried the handle, which opened easily to his surprise. The great door pushed open and John stuck his head in to look around.

The entryway was grand. A beautiful, wide double staircase spread out before him, its ivory tendrils reaching out to either side. The floor was a creamy off-white marble cut to a pattern by black diamonds. Accompanying it were marble columns that reached high above and John craned his neck once again to see their tops. Tapestries depicting medieval scenes hung from large rods with carved finials. The whole entry was brimming with splendor even in the dim and John was impressed. He walked in and called out into the vast expanse, but only silence answered. He walked forward into the tenebrous room, checking to this side and that for anyone who might be about. There were rooms on either side. Antechambers he suspected, for most doors were closed with no light to speak of, except one. What looked to be firelight came from one of the chambers closest to the staircase. A pale orange light flickered across the marble floor and ornate wooden bannister. John drew closer; he saw no shadow to indicate the presence of another. Nevertheless, he was primed for interaction should the situation arise, sending one hand to brush the handle of his sidearm. Quietly, he ran his other hand along the smooth cherry wood of the door and slowly pushed it open enough to peek his head inside. 

It was a study. The decor was dark and rich; swaths of scarlet and mahogany wrapped themselves around the room like old friends in greeting. Shelves of books lined the wall to the left and a large wood desk stood to the right. The far wall boasted a stunning fireplace, which was indeed the source of the light that he had previously viewed from the entrance hall. A red, plush armchair with a thin-legged side table rested in front of it and John thought for the slightest of moments that he may be disturbing someone. But as he approached, he found the chair empty. The fire felt warm though and it comforted him in this barren and winter-ridden manor. He stepped closer and held his hands out, for they were quite frozen through.

Suddenly, the door flew open with a forceful gust of wind that blew the flames back against the ashen bricks of the hearth. It had startled John quite absolutely; until he turned and realized who was standing there, coat in a flourish around his legs.

"Sherlock," John breathed out with relief, the adrenaline still causing tremors in his body, "Bloody hell. What is going on? Why haven't you answered my calls?"

Sherlock's face at first was unreadable and he walked with such command over to where John stood that he almost seemed to do it in purposeful slow motion. Though John knew that to be ridiculous, even for Sherlock's dramatics. When he reached his friend, his voice came out as slow as his gait, but as deep as the darkness surrounding the castle.

"I was in another part of the house," his eyes darted up and down, and his head lolled from side to side. It was like a cat sizing up a creature of quarry before it, and it struck John as odd.

"That's not what I was talking about," John took out his phone, "I've been texting you, calling you. It's not like you to not respond. What's going on? And why are you still here?"

"The case is not solved," Sherlock replied simply.

"Well then, I think you owe me twenty quid," John joked attempting to lighten the mood; though his smile was soon lost as Sherlock's expression did not change, nor did he offer a reply, "Umm, you sure you're okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine, why wouldn't I be?"

John decided to drop it. It didn't matter now as he could clearly see that no harm had come to his insufferable flatmate, and besides he was tired, "Right. I'm going to get my bag from the car and I'll be back in. You can show me where the designated rooms are and fill me in on what you've found."

And John did just that. Sherlock waited at the door and then proceeded to lead John up the imposing staircase. The halls were lined with old paintings and aged suits of armor. It looked like something out of a fairytale. John had never seen anything like it. Did places like this really still exist in this day and age? He looked at the armor, gazing at the helmets as he passed by. He almost thought that they would turn to look after them as they walked. This was a silly thought, but it made him smile nonetheless.

They reached a room toward the end of the hall. Sherlock stopped and motioned at the door. John pushed past him and opened it with a long, high-pitched creak. The room itself was just as lovely as the rest of the house, if a bit untended. Splendidly decorated, it showed some signs of disuse, though it hardly took away from the overall impression. John set his bag on the end of the bed.

"It's nice," he said, looking around, "Are you next door?"

Sherlock remained silent, staring at him from the doorway.

"Ok," he moved on, "Let's have a look at what you have found so far, yeah?" John walked past the stagnant detective into the hallway and pointed to the doors on either side, "Which one is yours?"

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, "None of them, really," but he said no more.

John sighed, exasperated, "Look, we are not going to get very far like this, and frankly, it's getting a little odd. Now, what information have you collected? Where have you been working?" He squinted at his friend, a thought entering his head, "Are you alright? Been sleeping much?"

"There is much to discover, John. Sleep would have hindered the work," he spoke slowly, as if to a child. John hated when he did that. It was not as if he had forgotten that the work was paramount to Sherlock. The half-full tea cups lying about the flat and doors of all sorts left ajar were a testament to that.

He breathed out, holding back his annoyance, and responded, "Why don't we start fresh in the morning."

It was more of a statement than a question. Sherlock was in obvious need of rest, but would not likely do so without some cajoling. Perhaps if he could get the man calmed and redirected enough, he could persuade him to lie down for a short time. He often did not sleep while on cases, however at times it went too far. Back home, John would have to insist that he take a break and normally Sherlock crashed hard for a few hours.

Sherlock surged forward, grabbing him by the shoulders, "There's no time, John," the fervor displayed in his face was intense, unyielding, and completely unexpected. 

John was now becoming nervous, "Sherlock, you've been here for nearly two weeks," he gently brought his hands up to reciprocate the hold his friend had on him, "A break, just a small break..." he looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw something he had never seen before. He did not know what it was, but it was wholly unfamiliar and strange. All he knew is that he wanted it gone. This case was doing something to his friend, something unhealthy. His face was drawn and unshaven, and his arms shook from within. He would have to up his game if he wanted to talk Sherlock out of his work-induced mania this time.

"A break..." Sherlock repeated.

"A break. Maybe it would be best to go see about a room in town? Get away from here and clear your head. You might even solve the case if you were detached for a while."

Sherlock let go of John's arms and took a step back, "Detached," his face flashed with panic, though he quickly recovered. He was collected when he spoke again, "I suppose a cup of tea might be helpful," an appeasing smile ghosted his lips.

John smiled back, but sighed on the inside. It was progress. However, the look of alarm on Sherlock's face had definitely not gone unnoticed. He wasn't sure what had triggered it, but it solidified the realization that a sharp eye may be best for the time being. He closed his eyes, feeling the burning sting of weariness behind them. At this particular moment, a cuppa was a welcome thought, "All right," he stood aside, "Where's the kitchen?"

Sherlock started back the way they had come and John followed, watching the consulting detective closely as they proceed through the candelabra-lit hallway.

~~~~~

"This place, it's spectacular," John said as he watched Sherlock make the tea. Normally, he would have done it himself, but Sherlock seemed to know where everything was and set about boiling the pot as soon as they had reached the kitchen. It was massive. The fuscous tile floor seemed to stretch on for miles and the wood and iron chandeliers hung like planets amidst the dark beams of the ceiling. The appliances had obviously been updated, but still seemed to blend into the rest of the kitchen. They hid among the bright wooden countertops, which were fit for the most highly skilled of butchers. The cabinetry held iron hinges and handles that splayed out with flourishes of curls against their distressed taupe faces. 

John looked about intently, trying ever so hard to keep his mind off of the red flag that was waving around in the back of his mind. This house was beautiful, indeed, but there was definitely something wrong with what was going on within. The way in which Sherlock reacted to him was not at all in keeping with his normal behaviour, if one could call how he behaved normal. The air seemed stale here and the furnishings devoid of any liveliness they may have once embodied. Even if the rooms were blessed with a full barrage of sunlight, he hypothesized that they would still remain as they are; dormant, afraid, lifeless. He wondered if there perhaps was a natural phenomena of some sort coming from the surrounding area that would affect anyone who dared live here long term. Though that would not explain the people who had successfully owned and lived here with no homicide to speak of. Perhaps there was a history of mental illness in the families of the area, but that would have lead to more deaths and in a broader area. Lost in thought, John barely noticed when the kettle sounded, signaling its readiness.

Sherlock, already in action, soon turned around and set the steaming cups on the center island side by side. A little, round, white tea-pot, donning a purple and gold mob cap-like top, was soon to follow. Swirling wisps of Earl Grey wafted through the air between them and it all felt very settling. It was then that Sherlock finally spoke.

"It seems that this house has more to it than meets the eye," he began. Though John was tempted to make a snide remark, he held his tongue as this was the longest sentence he had heard since his arrival, "The reason I have not required the room adjoining yours is that I have found a hidden room. The young master, the original victim, his room," John's eyebrows raised, but he remained silent, "It is in the West Wing. The entrance does not appear to have been meant to be secret, but was covered up at a later date. Perhaps by the original owner, but more likely by one of the subsequent owners who succumbed," he took a drink of tea from the cup to his left, setting it down and cupping it with his other hand. His eyes followed his hands, but soon rose to meet John's, "Would you like to see it?"

"Succumbed..."

"What?"

"Succumbed. You said that the previous owner succumbed. Succumbed to what exactly?"

Sherlock's lips tightened and his eyes lowered once more as he paused. John cocked his head to the side and gazed up at him, attempting to garner his attention. Through tousled curls, Sherlock returned the gaze and spoke with a voice that resounded deep in John's chest, "The curse upon this house."

Didn't see that one coming. Had he not observed the seriousness in his friend's eyes, he might have laughed in earnest. As it was, he let out a bit of a snort. Neither of them believed in such nonsense, especially Sherlock. He stared at the man before him, and this time, he really looked. There's something about seeing someone every day that mutes the details. Everything is fine until something major changes, and then one might take notice, giving a comment or compliment. The change affected here was slight, but now that he gave himself over to scrutiny, he found that the odd behaviour was not the only change. Sherlock looked different, but only just. His eyes seemed darker. His hair fell in ringlets as was it's usual form, especially in the damp of winter, however it was longer now. Impossibly long for the time Sherlock had been away, and John happened to know that he had just gone for a trim not one week prior to taking the case. And what of his shoulders? Narrow, slim, and stately in form, now appeared broader and more imposing. John could not account for these changes and thought that maybe it was all in his imagination. Or more gravely, perhaps whatever had affected the former occupants of the castle, was now affecting him.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts. He did not have enough information to begin the process of conclusion. As Sherlock constantly reminded him, he was seeing, but not observing. So onward and upward to observe. There must be something that had acutely affected Sherlock in that room. But what could it have been and why was it that Sherlock had spent a week holed up here and not solved the case? John picked up his tea and took a long drink. The more time he spent here, the more confused he was becoming. The thought that getting away from the mysterious manor might be the best thing reoccurred. But he was curious as to what Sherlock had found and the consulting detective seemed settled on staying for the moment. He would have to keep his wits about him. No conclusions. Not enough information. Mind at the ready, Watson. He stood up with his mug.

"Let's have a look at the room then, shall we?"


	3. The West Wing

The West Wing was not at all like the marginally well-kept entrance and hallways that he had previously seen. As they walked further and further into it, the tapestries became shabbier. The paintings were slanted and falling off of the walls. Colors seemed faded here and dust layered the surfaces. John almost knocked a statue off of a side table as he passed. Though the candelabras and sconces in the house had been fitted for electricity, they did not provide much more light than their antique counterparts. This part of the house had obviously been more neglected than the rest. Many of the bulbs were missing, the wallpaper peeled hopelessly, and random items had been left in the hallway as improper storage. Finally, through the chaos, they came to a large tapestry hung floor to ceiling on the wall. The picture was of a knight atop his steed looking rather regal. Sherlock pulled it back to reveal a stone wall, much like the rest of the castle in appearance. He then pushed a small, rounded stone that sat neatly in between the larger grey bricks. The sound of pulleys could be heard and a doorway was revealed. 

John laughed. This was just like the movies.

They walked through the door and into the secret room. It was akin to the room that John was staying in, but larger and at one point in time, more lavishly furnished. This room was twice the size, but was not cared for at all like his own. The draperies were torn and falling, the floor had leaves that had blown in from the terrace, and the upholstery on the chairs was worn and tattered. The room itself was tattered and sad and John felt unhappy upon walking into it. This he did not have time to dwell on however as Sherlock quickly lead him to a chamber adjoining the bedroom.

"A private library," John said as he looked around. He put his tea down on an obliging side table. The walls were solid lines of books, many being first additions and rare finds. He examined the brimful shelves. There were even holds for scrolls and parchment, now left to sit and gather dust, the pages yellowed and frail.

"Yes, John, a private library," he ran his fingers along a stack of books set out among many on a table in the middle of the small room, "This is where I found it," he picked up a book that took up half of the space of his torso as he held it. It was a family history bound in bright red leather.

"What happened here, Sherlock?" John asked hesitantly.

"A young man, on his wedding night, refused a beggar woman at his door. She had asked for lodging in..."

"Yes, in exchange for a rose. Lestrade filled me in on the tale, as did the people in the town. A load of rubbish if you ask me. All fairytales and..."

"Perhaps not," he interrupted. John sucked in his breath and peered at Sherlock with skeptical eyes and pursed lips. Sherlock turned and firmly put the book down on the table, sending others underneath scattering. He opened it and flipped through the pages, coming to one toward the end that depicted a scene that appeared to have taken place just before the wedding night, "This John, it tells the entire story, but ends before the young man was killed."

"But he wasn't killed. He killed his fiancée and then himself," John replied.

"No, something else killed him. There are other accounts," he looked through the books and papers on the desk, becoming more agitated as he failed to find what he was looking for, "The details conflict. The stories don't match, as if it were made up. It's here, but it's not here. There isn't enough....not enough..." his words spiraled faster and faster.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed his arm and stepped forward so as to come face to face, "What is going on?"

"Don't you see? All of the murders, the suicides, they are all the same. The cause is the same!" His look had become as intense as ever and the space around him seemed to hum.

"And what might that be?" John said evenly. He wanted to diffuse the situation. Sherlock's demeanor was increasing in vehemence and it was convincing John beyond a doubt that it was time to calm down and take a rest.

"I don't know. That's why I'm still here. All of the victims displayed the same behaviours. It begins with seclusion, then an increase in irritability," he was pacing now, back and forth in front of John, "As they were all at home, there were never any witnesses to their deaths. Even the ones who employed servants and housekeepers, they only reported the behaviour. The bodies were simply found. Nothing was done John!" he spat out with vexed disgust. He walked away from John in a huff and re-entered the bedroom. 

John followed, grabbing his tea and taking a large drink. He was going to need the caffeine. At least Sherlock had calmed a bit, though it may be a long night if he couldn't convince him to shut up and take a break. Entering the other room, he found the consulting detective sitting sprawled out in one of the ragged chairs, his hands rubbing his temples.

"Listen, this case is obviously not getting solved tonight. Let's get some rest and start again tomorrow. I think I might have some ideas. I met some of the towns folk and they may be able to provide some more information. We could head there in the morning," he took another sip of tea.

Sherlock stopped his ministrations and looked up at John. The look was cold, his eyes mirroring the frost that had begun to settle outside the window just to his right. It was akin to that same strange look that had been on his face when John had first arrived, except for a small turn at the corner of his mouth, "Yes," he said slowly, "I think a rest might do us good."

Finally, John thought. But the thought came slowly as well. In fact, everything began to slow down substantially and a haze set over the room. His vision began to disappear into a dark void. As the floor moved closer toward his head, the last thing he saw was Sherlock leap from his chair and slide to catch him. Though braced for a hard hit, his landing was soft, and then there was nothing.

He awoke to wind and rain. The coarse knots bound him, but the knowledge of who put them there held him all the more tightly. At first he wondered what was going on. Why had he been drugged...this time? What made Sherlock want to keep him there? Then it hit him, Sherlock wanted to stay. There was some strange pull this place had over him and it appeared he was loathe to leave it. That was the odd look and the agitation when he had suggested taking a break and finding information elsewhere. But why would he keep John prisoner?

Irritability, he thought, Seclusion. Hadn't those been his words when describing the symptoms of the victims before their deaths? Part of the "curse" presumably. There must be some kind of natural phenomenon in this area that causes this reaction in people. But what? How? Why some and not others? The thoughts came in a wash over him, but the desire to escape, to get help, was paramount. When his thumb finally slipped through the rope, his adrenaline soared. He maneuvered through the rest quickly and not without gaining a few burns and scratches along the way. 

His hands and feet unbound, he jumped out of the bed and moved toward the hall, trying to ignore the scathing marks left by his bindings. He peeked out warily, knowing that he may be discovered at any time. The house was large, but Sherlock would not leave him there for long unsupervised. He crept out into the blessedly dark passage, staying close to the walls and in the shadows. At every creak and moan of the manor, he stopped. During every bout of thunder he ran. He was able to reach the front door with no sign of Sherlock. Though he still did not trust that his solitude would last much longer. His plan was to take the car and get to town as fast as possible. He was sure the local police would be able to help. At least they could get back up there to get Sherlock out of the house and figure out what to do to stop the progression of whatever it was that was affecting him.

This turned out to be folly. The car sat where John had left it, however the hood was up and the sabotage apparent.

"Fuck," he tried not to scream it, but it came out louder than he wanted. He looked behind him into the house. No one appeared, but the outburst might have been heard. Soon a rustling coming from inside, and not far off, confirmed it. John, having no other choice in the moment, began to run. He took off for the woods heading toward town, hoping Sherlock would not follow, or would not be able to find him should he decide to take his car along the roadway. The rain had let up a bit, but the temperature was dropping. He only wore his shirt and jumper, which did not offer much protection against the wind and cold. It was of no consequence for the moment. He ran though the trees with speed, dodging the fallen branches and twigs that threatened to bring him down. Their sharp points grabbed at his clothing as he tore through the barren forest. 

Then, a wolf cry. He stopped, which was not what one should do in an instance of known danger, but nonetheless it stopped the man dead in his tracks. He listened again, but could not tell from which direction it had come. He instinctively reached around to where he normally carried his gun, but found it empty. Sherlock must have removed it when he had tied him up. He hadn't noticed until now. Christ, why hadn't he noticed? Panic rising, John took off once again. He had no plan; he knew it was a long way into town and that it would take long into the morning to reach it. But there was no choice. He had to reach it, wolves and cold be damned.

And then the light footfalls were heard through the silence, many of them. Rain soaked leaves swished behind him and soon he heard the growls. He didn't dare look back. He knew they were gaining on him. A large stick lay ahead and he increased his speed, hoping to reach it in time. He ran faster and faster, paying no heed to the strain and drug-induced fatigue in his muscles. At the last moment, he bent down, slid on one foot, and grabbed the branch. Turning over, he came up swinging, hitting the first attacking wolf in the face. There were three others closing in. His hands shook and he swallowed hard. Gripping the stick firmly, he prepared for the onslaught. 

The lean, dark muzzled wolf at the front bared his teeth and leapt. John swung as hard as he could, the branch sailing through the air. It did not hit his mark, but the wolf fell to the floor. The woods rang with the sound of a gun fired not fifteen yards from the scene. By the time he turned to look back, a flash of black was moving toward him at a swift rate. Sherlock jumped in front of him, crouched and ready. The gun he had used was discarded and John was horrified to see him advancing on the pack. He scrambled to pick up the gun, but the ground was laden with slick leaves and branches and he could not find the instrument in time. The second wolf charged Sherlock, swiping fiercely with his claws. One found purchase on his chest as another wolf leapt onto his back. Sherlock got a handful of the wolf's fur and threw it forward over his shoulder. It hit a nearby tree with a crack and fell into the mud. The other two wolves paused, but did not back off. Their teeth bared and growls growing louder, they began to once again advance on the men. A deep noise like John had never heard sounded out frighteningly from the man in front of him, who immediately jumped up on the log beside them and crouched. Too startled to think, John raised the gun in his hand and fired at the pack. One, two, three shots, he took out the leader. It fell to the ground with a whimper. Sherlock leapt at the other two, swinging his fist with a savage right hook. It found it's target and the wolf yelped, but not before it's claws hit Sherlock's arm. Trails of red began to show through his sleeve. John ran ahead and shot again. The wolves turned as well, giving up the fight and retreating back into the forest.

It was quiet now.

John watched them to be sure they weren't coming back. His chest heaved and adrenaline rushed through his veins. Once satisfied, he tucked the gun into his belt and immediately turned back to check on Sherlock. The man stood wavering in the cold, blood staining his clothes, his face pale. He attempted to walk, but his legs went weak and he stumbled, the let down of the ordeal suffusing the chemical flush of his brain. As John raced forward, he caught his friend just before he fell to the ground. His eyes were unfocused and his breathing was harsh.

"John," he whispered.

"It's all right, just stay still," he moved the thick cloth of Sherlock's jacket and looked at the bleeding wounds beneath, "I need to get you inside. These need to be treated. Can you walk?"

"I...think so," he attempted to rise.

John helped him to his feet, "Let's get you back."

The journey back to the manor was cold and long. John did not relish returning to the aging castle, but it was the closest and safest place at the moment and Sherlock needed medical attention. The sun was over the horizon now and swaths of pink and orange guided their way. John pushed open the heavy door. Sherlock was hanging on firmly to his shoulders as they moved inside. The fire was smoldering in the study and John tended it after a frigid Sherlock was safely placed in the plush arm chair in front of it. He was able to get it relit and the room began to warm slightly. John turned his attention to his friend, regarding him with a doctor's eye. His jacket was ruined. That was the first item to come off. The material was torn to shreds along with the white shirt beneath. A bit of luck that was; the claws ran through the cloth more than they had run through Sherlock. He began to tear the clothing apart to clear the way to the actual wounds. Sherlock sat up and allowed him to pull the jacket and shirt back and down over his thin shoulders. The fragile skin on his chest and arm moved and strained along with him as the clothing was shed. He hissed in discomfort.

"You all right?" John paused a moment with concern. 

Sherlock nodded, shaking slightly, and allowed the rest of the material to be removed from his torso. He was most definitely not all right, not in the least. The man had just faced down a pack of wolves with his bare hands to defend his best friend and almost lost his life in the process. That best friend whom he had previously drugged and locked up in a dilapidated castle in the middle of nowhere. And all of this while investigating a three thousand year old murderous fairytale curse, which may be taking hold of him entirely. He was shaking, cold, tired, and visibly unsettled. His mind was reeling, beset by the information at hand. He sat on the edge of the seat, his hands fidgeting, the firelight playing upon his pale skin.

John stilled those hands with his own, speaking as evenly and with as much solace as possible, "You don't happen to know where they kept the first aid, do you?" 

"Unfortunately no," he replied, voice barely audible.

"I'll be right back. I'll at least need something to clean this with," he chose his words cautiously, not mentioning that they really should leave and get to the town. John wanted to be careful until he could ascertain more about the state of the consulting detective's mind. The mention of leaving is what set off the night's events and he did not have the energy to deal with another episode. However, the wounds may need stitches and who knows what kind of supplies were stocked in the house. He just hoped Sherlock had not sabotaged his own car as well in the event that they would require the resources of a hospital. He grabbed a nearby throw blanket and carefully wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders. The man was shivering and the fire only afforded so much heat at this point. Winter's chill was a bastard when it got into your bones. He put a comforting hand to the thin shoulder before heading out of the chamber.

The manor was enormous and after looking in a few closets, bathrooms, and around the kitchen, he only found some iodine and gauze. He brought back a bowl of clean warm water and towels. Setting them on the floor in front of the fire, he knelt at the wounded man's side and began the process of caring for him. He placed the wet towel over the cuts on Sherlock's arm. The detective once again hissed in pain.

"That hurt!" He protested, pulling his arm away.

"Hold still or it'll hurt more," John admonished.

"If you hadn't run away, this would have never happened."

John sat back and put his hands on his hips, "If you hadn't tied me up and acted like a maniac, I wouldn't have run."

Sherlock sat back and sulked, "The case isn't solved."

"I'm afraid you're becoming the case," John knelt back down, his tone softer. He poured some iodine on one of the towels, "Now keep still, this is going to hurt a little," the towel pressed against the wound and stung in an awful manner. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut & breathed in sharply, but did not move from John's gentle grasp. The doctor leaned forward and blew over the area where the iodine was soaking into the skin. For some reason that always felt better despite the fact that new bacteria was being breathed into an open wound. It brought back fond memories of skinned knees and elbows. His mother tended them in much the same way, firm, but tender. Sherlock relaxed a bit, his face brightening. John continued to pat at each cut, cleaning and sanitizing as much as possible. The bleeding had all but stopped and they would not need stitches, strictly speaking. Thankfully, the wounds on his chest were the same, if a bit deeper. The coat had caught a lot of the force and so the claws had not gouged too terribly. Four even slashes ravaged the skin, but the damage was not as bad as it had initially appeared. John steadied the compliant detective with his hand softly at his back as his other came to wash the vicious looking wounds. The water did not cause him much pain, but when the iodine was added, the necessary evil obliged Sherlock to recoil. John caught him and steadied him once more.

"Sorry," John murmured.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back, "It's fine," he stiffened, allowing John to continue, "I am...sorry as well. I should not have...detained you."

Stopping once again, John looked up, "Look, Sherlock, I don't know what is going on, but you're not yourself. I think we need to find out what is happening, or what happened here in the past..."

"They died, John. They all died. They became monsters...beasts, and they tore their lives apart."

The tone was so bitter, it made John cringe.

"Yes, but there has to be an explanation," he moved on, "Ok, stand up."

Sherlock complied, raising his arms so as to allow the doctor to bind his chest with the gauze wrapping. The cuts had ceased bleeding, however they were open nonetheless and susceptible to irritation and infection. First aid handled and clothing gathered, the pair headed up stairs to retrieve another shirt for Sherlock. It was already well into the morning and the night had passed without rest. Each man felt this most profoundly in their bodies for not only had they not rested, but the whole of the eve had been eventful. John did not want Sherlock going back to the hidden room in his state, so instead he steered them to his own room. After some protest, Sherlock put on one of John's undershirts and stood wearily in the middle of the room.

"Bed," John pointed to his bed, receiving a wrinkle-nosed look from his friend. But he shot a look back that meant business and the consulting detective caved. Exhaustion was finally taking him. He headed over and pulled back the crimson coverlet. The sheets were cold and so was he. Begrudgingly he slipped underneath them. Soon they would be warm as ever, and the comfort was already beginning to lull him into a haze of sleep. The torments in his mind slowed to a halt.

"Where will you sleep?" He asked drowsily.

Taking off his shoes, John walked over to the Victorian chair by the door, "This will do."

"You'll never be able to get proper rest in that."

"I think I could sleep just about anywhere at this point," he laughed, "And I need to keep an eye on you."

As Sherlock attempted to sit up in protest, his body proceeded to issue him firm instructions to lie back down. He winced in pain and flopped back onto the pillow, "John, it's cold, and you have not slept for twenty four hours. You just pulled me through two miles of forest in the dead of winter. Come over here and lie down, or go in the next room. I promise I won't go anywhere."

John thought a moment, then sighed. He did not want to leave Sherlock alone until they figured out what was happening, but he desperately needed to sleep. It was true, he would not get much rest curled up in the old chair. He reluctantly went over to the bed and slid in beside Sherlock. The bed was large enough that they did not want for space. Each laid on their back on their own side looking at the ceiling. Mutually, they were mildly uncomfortable, but the fatigue of the day and night soon caught up with them and sleep was met with contentment.

John awoke to large, green-blue eyes staring at him.

"You're here," the doctor said, rubbing the sleep from his own eyes.

"I promised I would be," came the low reply.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock thought a moment, "I need to further examine the books in the private library."

"Not quite what I meant," John laughed, "Is that the only place you've looked? Is there another library?"

Sherlock smiled.


	4. Both a Little Scared, Neither One Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note, this chapter gets a little intense. Get ready...here we go...

The doors sat tall and inviting in their beautiful state adorning the antiquated hallway. The boom of the handles and moan of the hinges as they opened provided a perfectly adequate soundtrack for the scene that lay before the two patrons. 

"Be my guest," Sherlock said, ushering John in and then following. He made for the heavy red velvet curtains and pulled them back with a dramatic swoosh. One after the other, he opened the curtains, bathing the expanse of the room in a warm flaxen afternoon sun. John squinted his eyes for a moment, allowing them to get accustomed to the brightness. He looked around and then up, smiling brilliantly. It was the castle's library, and it was an amazing library, at that. The shelves climbed the walls and invited you to climb with them. Up to the tip top one might go by means of tall shining wood and brass ladders. A person could travel from one shelf to the next and never want for fine literature. John was not a reader by nature, but he appreciated the knowledge in books and he could certainly appreciate the craftsmanship of this glorious haven.

"Don't tell me you've looked through all these," he joked.

"There was not much to look for. This is where I started, but most of these are normal fiction, non-fiction, reference. I needed personal accounts, details, hidden items that have been forgotten. The signal here is rubbish, so my laptop and phone were of no use. When I found the room, I knew I had a breakthrough. It has afforded me more information than anything, however I still cannot find the cause," he looked down and to the side, as he often did when having to admit something he had no desire to admit, "I'm...afraid that it may become more urgent that I do so."

The meaning was clear, "Then what are we waiting for?" John turned and walked back out of the room, Sherlock in tow.

~~~~~

The hidden room proved to be more of a challenge than he had thought. The shelves in this library were in no particular order and some of the writings were quite old and fragile. They poured over the manuscripts and mountains of books. Though the history was read over and over, it only afforded a minimal amount of clues, most of which Sherlock had already uncovered. As they took a break to eat, more at John's request than anything, the silence was palpable. John was exhausted and tense. Sherlock was becoming more agitated by the moment. And they were both slowly realizing that those moments were running out.

"Perhaps going over the account from the maid once more would..."

"Do nothing," Sherlock shot back, "It would do nothing John. This is not what we are looking for. Why can't I see it?" He got up and paced, his agitation growing, "It's all here. Why can I not find the clue?"

"Just take it easy."

Sherlock stopped and looked at John, "Easy?" He hissed, "Do you think this is easy?" He launched himself to where John sat, his hands grabbing the chair arms. Their faces inches apart, "I am Sherlock Holmes," he growled, "I solve cases. I find murderers. How do I do it? Why do I do it? Because I am like them," he withdrew forcefully and stalked out of the private library.

Sighing, half with annoyance, half with concern, John got up and followed. He rounded the corner to find Sherlock at the large double doors that lead to the terrace. They were open at his behest and the cold was like a slap in the face. Though instead of making the distressed man come to his senses, it only incensed him further. His hands gripped the sheer drapes that framed the glass doors. Tighter and tighter they held, until his knuckles were white from the lack of blood. He roared; deep and coarse the sound came howling from his throat. In one quick movement he tore the sheers from their rod and turned. It looked like gossamer wings settling down behind him, but angelic he was not. His eyes were lit like an autumn bonfire and his fingers remained curled as if the drapes were still clutched within them. But he had let them go. He had to let them go. He wanted it all to go. 

"Why are you here, John?" His breath had increased two-fold.

"To solve this case," John said simply. Further fanning the flames of the man's ire was the last thing he wished to do, so he thought he'd keep it concise.

The effect did not take hold, "Lies! Why do people lie? They lie to me because they know I know the truth and they hate me for it. And I hate them because they have always hated me. They want me to go away...the freak, the emotionless monster," he spat, now pacing the floor, "I am no better than the criminals I catch, no better than the vermin that roam the streets...a beast!" at this he bent over and pulled a chair up off of the floor. Holding it high above his head, he threw it across the room with a strength John had never seen. It broke into several pieces as it hit the opposite wall and clattered to the floor.

"Whoa, whoa!" John slowly approached the raging man, his hands outstretched.

"NO! Don't you talk to me. I am a monster. I treat everyone as mindless peons. Because they're nothing, nothing to me! Because I don't care. I have no love, no soul, only my mind...and what's is that worth?" his voice broke and his brow wrinkled, his eyes grew red at the edges. And then something inside him snapped. It was like witnessing Jekyll and Hyde come to reality. Growling, with curled hair flowing wildly around him, he knocked over chairs and tore the sheets from the bed as he ranted. He jumped up on the now bare mattress. Standing tall with his shoulders back and his legs shoulder-width apart, his stance was war-like and frightening, "You started this," he pontificated to a painting above the headboard, "You were the same. Why?!?"

John had not noticed the portrait before. It was a young man; the orphaned owner of the manor. He recognized him from another family portrait he had passed in another part of the house. Seeing the painting now, it struck him in the oddest way. The man was thin and stunning. He was dressed in a blue coat with gold braided embellishments. Long, brown hair hung to his shoulders in twists and waves and green-blue eyes seemed to stare right through him. It remarkably resembled Sherlock and that unsettled John more than anything that had happened up to this point. A sense of dread washed over him.

"Sherlock..." John tried, looking back and forth from the painting to his friend, but Sherlock was not listening.

"What is it?" Came the low whisper. Ominous and curious though it was, it had not been directed at the blond doctor standing beside the bed. Sherlock had moved to the painting and spoke to it closely, running his hand down the canvas, "You were just...like...ME!" 

Down came his fingers, slashing like the sharp, penetrating claws of the forest wolves. They ripped the oil-painted face of the fair young man and pulled the frame from its mount. The whole thing came crashing down over the bedside table. Glass shattered and trinkets flew to the corners of the room. The ferocity made John take a step backward, the rain of splintered frame and debris narrowly missing him.

"What are you doing?" He screamed back at the raging man. 

"I am a beast!" Sherlock clutched his curls in his hands, his elbows closing in front of his face. He collapsed down, hunched over on the bed. 

John went to him cautiously, but he only pulled away, maintaining distance and murmuring much of the same that he had previously expressed. He repeated himself over and over and over. His demeanor was agitated, but seemingly tired now, as if tremendously weak. He rocked there on his knees in the middle of the bed, his mind far, far away. John remained still, trying to breathe and still his fiercely beating heart. He was truly at a loss, and so he stood motionless in the devastated room. He felt there was something that he should say, but the words would not come. Suddenly, Sherlock sat back and turned, his back facing John. He paused for a brief moment and then rose, walking out onto the terrace in solitary silence.

"You're not a beast," John called out, his voice found. But only the iron door hinges responded in their wind-ravaged way and it quieted him, "You're not a beast," he repeated softly.

John had gone back into the private library after that. His insides were in a disconcerted uproar, but he felt satisfied that he would be able to hear any further upset on the part of Sherlock, for he was nearby and his ears keen. However he soon found himself awakening on top of a pile of books. He had fallen asleep. Jumping up, he ran into the other room scanning for the detective. The terrace doors were closed, the room still in disarray, but with no more damage than what had been done previously. He ran to the doors and looked through the glass out onto the balcony. Unkempt and glazed with frost it was, but at the moment no one occupied it. 

John swallowed hard. Where could Sherlock have gone? He must be in the house, for he knew the consulting detective was loathe to leave it. He ran out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway. He decided that he would search the main rooms of the house first. Perhaps he had gone to the kitchen or the study. Those rooms proved to be empty as well. Leaving the kitchen, he faintly heard music coming from an unknown source. He followed his ears, and they lead him to the ballroom. Cautiously and stealthily he approached the door. It was open a bit and he pushed it slowly, peering inside. The scene playing out before him would soon have him transfixed. It was strange, but humorous, and somehow magnificent; something that might grace the pages of a storybook, but did not happen in modern day.

The candelabras were lit, making the entire room glow, though the ceiling was high above and the enormous windows allowed the star filled sky to act as an inky backdrop. It was a bright and mirthful place, alive and well in the sad and neglected manor. It must have been the room that was met with the most care. He knew the present owners had used it for galas and such. The grand ballroom was dressed in gold with swaths of silk fabric draped above his head. The ceiling was a beautiful mural of blue sky and playful cherubs who laughed and cheered the dancers far below. An umber marble floor warmed the room despite its cold origin in the quarries. 

And then there was the music. John did not recognize the waltz that filled his ears. It was as grand as the ballroom in which he now stood. It beckoned him inside to hear it better, though he did not wish to disturb the dancing form before him. Sherlock waltzed, holding the air as if someone shared the dance with him. His manner was calm now and focused. His eyes closed every so often as if he danced in and out of a dream. It was a far cry from where John had left him. His clothing had changed as well. John could no longer see the white shirt as it was covered by a handsome frockcoat of navy and silver. The embroidered garlands adoring the chest, collar, and cuffs glinted in the light. It hugged his form perfectly, as if it had been specially tailored. Slim and beautiful it moved, he moved. Rhythm, perfection; the melody seemed to follow him instead of the other way around.

John leaned against the wall, his head lolling to one side, arms crossed in front of his chest. He watched and was settled. He could not figure why, but he felt more at ease in this moment than he had the whole time he had been in this strange place. This was a rather peculiar sight, but it was happy and it was bright. Whatever gave Sherlock the impetus to steal away to the ballroom gave John a tender grip of hope. He mused and he smiled. His mind wandered back to the flat, to times jovial and dangerous. Where danger meant murderers and late-night chases, not wolves and eerie castles. Where they sat in comfy chairs over tea and ushered in the next client. Where a disturbance at two in the morning usually meant a bout of insomnia and a violin concerto. John's grey-blue eyes went to that fuzzy place where one's mind smiled just so and things like vision are of no consequence. Suddenly, a hand was extended before him, shocking him into focus, and he looked up to see Sherlock smiling back. His eyes gleamed, his cheeks rosy from the dance. John chuckled at himself.

"I, uh, I don't dance," he was not sure if Sherlock was serious, but he flushed at the thought, absurd thing that it was.

"It is not a dance," he replied smoothly, his hand remaining mid air.

John laughed nervously, in a way that conveyed that he could not believe he was about to do what he was about to do. He looked away, feeling the burning in his cheeks and the rising of his heartbeat. But he soon looked back to his friend, smiled, and in the spirit of amusement extended his own hand, placing it in Sherlock's outstretched. In an instant they were turning about the resplendent ballroom. Sherlock lead with impressive expertise. It was such that John felt his rhythm with ease and moved in time, though he indeed was not skilled in this area. At first, he felt compelled to look at his feet, nervous that he would step on his partner's. But his head soon rose to the sight of fiery turquoise eyes locking him in, imploring him to pull closer. Out of pure instinct, his arm moved further over Sherlock's shoulder, their bodies now touching. Sherlock responded, tightening his own hold around John's waist. They moved together now, the music encountering them as one. Sherlock had been correct, this was not a dance. It was a feeling. 

The music stopped, but the dance continued. There was nothing but the repetitive hum of the record player tracking over and over by the wall, but the very air they waltzed through hung thick with feeling. They slowed as it all dissipated into reality, though a bit more than a thread of it remained still. They did not disengage from each other, instead coming to a halt in the middle of the floor. They breathed heavily from the exertion and their cheeks were a mirrored flush. Sherlock looked into John's eyes, but could find no words to speak to him. He stood, his hands resting on the man's waist. The rage that had so recently been vexatious was nowhere to be found. Instead, his face was open, like a book whose pages had been liberated by the wind.

John stilled. The room was spinning. It had not stopped when the music had, for reasons not yet realized. The blur went by around him as if it barely existed in this world. For a split second, he thought that maybe it did not. Maybe this was something else all together, a dazzling place he had never known. He felt uncertain and ensnared. Those eyes, those eyes would not allow him to leave here. They begged, they worried, they wanted. John did not remember seeing it before, but he knew now that the whole of it had been there all along. The time for ignorance was through.The question now was would his mind allow such possibilities. His breath halted in his chest. His lungs decided that air was not the order of the moment and were being decidedly uncooperative. John's body betrayed him and when Sherlock went to pull closer once more, he flinched and pulled back. He had not meant it to be abrupt, but he could see from Sherlock's reaction, that had been the case. John looked away, not knowing why he was attempting to hide his unease.

"Fresh air," John began. Sherlock gave him a confused look, "Walk with me?" He finished.

"Of course," came the apprehensive reply.

They proceeded to the veranda and looked out over the back gardens. The hedges and trees were barren with the onset of winter. In striking contrast, the rose bushes that seemed to surround the manor at every turn were strangely full and blossoming. Red roses grew tall, petals curved and thorns sharp. Some of them even grew possessively up the stone walls of the castle. 

"It's strange," John's voice cut through the chilled air in clouds of white, "I noticed it when I came in as well. There shouldn't be roses blooming at this time of year."

"No, there shouldn't," Sherlock replied, "These are antique vine roses, hybridized before 1867. They are damasks, which mean they only bloom once per year in one impressive movement in the spring. These flowers are mature and radiant year round and have been for as long as records on this house have been kept. No one has discovered why. The people of the town would tell you it was from the legend of the original proprietor of the castle. When the old woman offered him a rose in exchange for shelter, he laughed and threw it out into the stormy night. The roses have grown strong ever since, or so they say."

John looked at him, but Sherlock was staring out into the distance. Deep in thought, he remained stationary. There was so much going through his head; there was always so much going through his head. John wondered about it. He knew that there was not sufficient time for all of Sherlock's thoughts to be shared; not enough by half. He mostly listened, and often kept silent, except for when the moment called for it, of course. In this instance, there was no calling. The night was just fine the way it was without his voice stealing away from it. He moved closer to Sherlock and took his hand, standing shoulder to shoulder. They stood that way for a long while, the sanguine golden light from the ballroom competing with the clear-sighted stars shining down upon them. 

Suddenly Sherlock gasped and took a step back, startling John.

"Roses!" He shouted, and flew back through the open French doors into the ballroom. Confused, John paused a moment and then followed.

"What about roses?" He questioned as they walked up the grand staircase.

"There was a rose found at every murder, except the first. There was no rose there. Why? Where was his rose?"

"Maybe he didn't have one."

"No, they all had one," Sherlock answered, "His death started the whole chain. He refused the rose. He had the first."

"Maybe he hid it before he died?" John offered.

"Precisely, but where?" he stalked off in the direction of the hidden room. Once inside, Sherlock stood centered in the chamber, hands at his temples, "He was found not far from this room. His room. This was his space. He was coming from here, coming from hiding it. Secret, hidden. Why? He knew. He knew he was going to die. He would have thought about the old woman, about her curse, about the rose. What did the rose mean to her?" Sherlock rambled.

"His cruelty?" John thought out loud.

Sherlock turned, "What?"

"He refused an old woman over her appearance and the offering of a rose. He was a selfish arse. That much was recorded by the servants," he explained.

"That much was recorded," he repeated, the wheels in his head turning, "What else was recorded, I wonder." 

His eyes met John's.

John began to catch on. The two instantly moved, taking either side of the room. They searched for secret compartments and clandestine places. They looked, knocked, prodded, and poked at wooden drawers, walls, and flooring. Finally, a stone behind a picture of the manor moved. Inside the small space they found a little vermillion journal. It had been sitting for ages, and the neglect showed on its cover. The edges were wasted and a thick coat of dust enveloped it. This was obviously the first time fresh air had graced it since the young master had hidden it.

"It's his journal," Sherlock said. He untied the leather strings with haste and opened the book. A rose lay quietly between the pages, as scarlet and as brilliant as ever. The blooms unfurled themselves slowly as the paper gave way, as if stretching from a long nap, "And here is the rose."

Sherlock went to pick it up, but John stayed his hand, "Don't," he grabbed the journal and took it over to the desk. The book was tipped and the rose slid off with ease onto the pile of papers beneath. Two petals fell from it and settled near the edge. He knew it was foolish, but the rules of reality did not seem to pay much heed in this place. He was not taking any chances, the occurrences of late were much too fanciful for his liking. Until he figured it out, no magical blooming rose was being handled by anyone. John sat in the chair and Sherlock moved another over. For the next couple of hours they read. 

His name was Lawrence Hawkes. He had kept the journal from an early age and as the story progressed, his thoughts became more self-centered. After his parents died, he was given anything and everything he had wanted, except for what he wanted most. The servants had done their best, but it was not enough to replace the love of a mother and a father. The pain from his parents death turned him cold to the world, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He had become spoiled, selfish, and unkind. The things provided for him, toys, clothing, horses, they became his focus for they gave him pleasure in a world he felt was devoid of it. They were his world. Human interaction was secondary and he grew apathetic to it. The engagement to the woman who would later become his victim was only at the urging of the mindless faces surrounding him. He accepted it, but admittedly never cared for the young lady.

The clock struck three and John sat back, rubbing his eyes.

"Ok, I need to get some sleep. Let's start back in the morning," he said.

"It's in here John. The answer must be in the text..."

"I know Sherlock, and we'll find it," he closed the journal, "Let's get some rest and we'll start first thing tomorrow. I'm only asking for a few hours," he entreated.

Sherlock ripped the book from the desk, "Then go, I'll stay here."

John sighed in annoyance, "Sherlock....listen, we don't know what is going on with you and..."

"All the more reason to find the solution as soon as possible," Sherlock fiercely interrupted.

"You need rest or you'll end up like the others!" He shot back, his voice raising. He was up and out of his chair before he could stop himself. Lack of sleep and stress of the situation taking hold of his countenance.

Sherlock stood up with enough vehemence to send his chair flying back into the wall, "And what if I did!!?" He shouted, coming to stand face to face with John, "Who would care? You?" He pushed him, stalking forward to trap him against the wall, "Why don't you just leave now? You seem so keen on it. It's all you've said from the beginning."

John was being pushed to the breaking point, "It's for your safety you sod! None of this is right. You're not right!" He pushed back.

Sherlock's eyes flashed. He grabbed two fistfuls of John's shirt and threw him to the floor in front of the desk. The force exerted was immense and John rolled on to his back, pausing for a moment out of shock. His head hurt from the knock against the marble floor and his vision blurred for an instant. Looking up, he saw his friend angry and out of control. His appearance was tantamount to that of a agonizing cocaine fit, and John found his own rage dissipating into worry. However he did not have long to ponder it as Sherlock came after him again, grabbing his shirt and pulling him up. The threads and buttons began to tear as he was dragged across the room, his head hitting the bedpost as he was thrown against it. He struggled with the hands that trapped him there. He did not want to hurt Sherlock, but if he could not get the overwrought detective to stop, he felt he may have to use more insistent ways of deterring him.

"Stop this," he choked out.

"You want me to stop?" Sherlock growled in return. He leaned in, brushing his cheek against John's, "Why?" Sherlock's breath was hot on his neck and John shivered unconsciously at the feeling. Sherlock brought his body to rest against the man he held in front of him. He could feel the involuntary tremor and heated skin, "You betray yourself."

That voice came lovely and deep, and it flowed through John's ear like music on the wind. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, now pushing himself back against the bedpost without thought. He breathed in and closed his eyes.

"This is wrong," John murmured, "This is all wrong. It isn't real...it can't be..."

Sherlock pulled back once again, his body retreating from the warmth that was John's. The same look he had not moments before was back. He gripped John's collar tighter, "Not real?" He slammed him against the bedpost, "Am I not real to you?" He twisted the fistfuls of shirt with white knuckles and reddened fingertips, "No heart, no emotion. Does that make me nonexistent in this world? Does that make me wrong?!?" He continued to slam him back with every new sentence. Suddenly the language stopped and only the physicality of the onslaught remained. 

John gathered his strength and pushed back against the frenetic man. He managed to get him back a few steps before Sherlock responded. He shoved John, causing him to fall backward onto the bed. In an instant, he was on top of him, pinning him down. John fought, but soon settled when he noticed that Sherlock was no longer on the offensive. The rage had subsided and was replaced with something else, something hidden. He lay looking up at the man. Sherlock's curly hair was wild and seemed far longer than before, for it hung forward over his face and neck. He was hunched and breathing hard. His face was intent, but becoming calmer as the seconds passed. It was changing to a look that was rarely seen on the consulting detective's face. It was honest realization and delicious fear. It was the undeniable look of one who would say something, but denies themselves for want of acceptance. Instead, John found that face leaning down toward his own. It brushed against his left cheek and nuzzled the base of his neck. It was confession seen, but not said, And it was here that John found himself wondering why that particular path was always so much easier. His eyes closed, and for a moment he was lost in the sensation, the brutal quarrel all but forgotten. It was then that he came to his own, very private, realization. It was him; it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock, on top of him, putting soft lips to heated skin. His skin, his skin was heated. And it was Sherlock doing it to him. His eyes went wide, his breath hitched, and he could bear the silence no longer.

"Sherlock," he rasped.

"Yes," came the muffled reply.

"Don't..." he struggled to push him away, "I think we should..."

Sherlock slowly rose, "I did not mean for you to reply, it was only an approval so that you would say my name again, in that tone preferably," he ran a long finger over John's mouth.

John had no words. This was not the Sherlock he knew; the wall shooting, case solving, beyond observant, high-functioning sociopath that lived with him at 221B Baker Street. Though this Sherlock professed to be an emotionless monster, uninhibited emotion was all there was to be seen. There was a yearning, a raw passion in his eyes that rose from within. He existed in it; and when he brought it down with him once again, rubbing his cheek against the other man's, John responded in kind. He moved to meet Sherlock's face, feeling the soft skin caress against his own. Sherlock's grip on his wrists became less and less for there was no longer a need for restraint. Or was there.

John grabbed for him with aggression, twisting and pulling him until he was properly mounted. Sherlock's curls splayed out beneath him on the blue and gold coverlet and his eyes went wild. He was enjoying this. He countered the attack and the two rolled back from whence they came. Sherlock regained his position and this time held John down. He dove then, sucking and biting the delicate skin of John's neck. His teeth, seemingly sharper than possible, scraped against flesh leaving dark red trails in their wake. Though John enjoyed the sensation, the nagging feeling that this was not right plagued his mind. Sherlock was not himself, and he, well, could he truly claim normality? His vacillating emotions were causing his head to spin and his attempts to quiet them were failing. 

He lashed out, needing it to stop, needing to take a breath. He fought back once again to stop Sherlock from advancing. He attempted to free his hands, but the strength with which they were held was immense, more than he thought his companion had in him. It was no use, but he could not allow this to happen. He was not even sure if he wanted it to happen. But maybe he did. Numerous lonely nights had lead the rogue thought to enter his mind. It had even gone further than that on a few occasions. He had wondered what Sherlock's body would feel like against his; how his skin would feel sliding smoothly up and down against his own in the dark. A few times, he had run his hands up and down his stomach and chest envisioning Sherlock there. He touched himself, his strong hands squeezing and pulling at the most sensitive areas. Moans would come unbidden, and in the dark he did not feel alone. Those nights now came back to haunt him. They assaulted him, making his arms weak and his resolve weaker. He was truly torn, and if Sherlock's mind was but partially intact, he would deduce this.

"Let me in," Sherlock growled in dominance. He ground his hips against John finding the already prominent response. John stifled a moan.

He knew.

John tensed with frustration, shutting his eyes tight. A tear threatened to go AWOL, anxiously waiting at the corner of his eye. It was more intense than any battle he had fought in. Afghanistan paled in comparison to the war now being fought within him. He was held hostage by the intangible. It was lovely and insurmountably frightening, "Sherlock, please..."

And that's what did it. Sherlock stopped, the beast retreating. The man who now hovered above John was flushed and shaking. There were not many times that he had heard John plead. He examined the conflict going on behind his face. He stilled, his breath slow and measured.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. But John's eyes remained shut, his head rolled to the side.

"I can't."

Sherlock released him then. Sitting back, he allowed John to rise, though he made no indication of removing himself from atop John's legs. Eyes now open, John breathed in deeply, but would not look to his friend. 

Sherlock could not abide this and he spoke out of sheer anxiety before his thoughts could complete themselves, "I shouldn't have..." His eyes searched, "John...please, I ..." but he held back the rest.

John's eyes rose, his hand slow to follow. He was not sure what else to do. A cry for help was coming from the only person who had been keeping him sane these past few years since his tour of duty had ended. A declaration of love was coming from the only person whom he had even had the inkling of spending the rest of his life with. The intimacy that they shared was not the sort anyone would get in a huff over should they witness it. It was simply a profound familiarity that made each of them want to be with the other. And because of this, Sherlock brought his own hand up in time, allowing their fingers to touch at the tips. Their fingers interlaced. Sherlock stared at the interaction as if in wonder. The reverie ended as another soft touch startled him. John had brought his other hand to Sherlock's face, running his thumb over the cheek that had caressed his moments before. Eyes like the ocean on a cloudy day stared at him and Sherlock found it difficult to maintain contact. He was urged forward by an unknown force as he towered over the smaller man.

"Yes," John swallowed back his fears.

"I am...sorry," Sherlock whispered, his voice deep and gentle.

"I did not mean for you to reply, it was only an approval," John wanted to smile, but his face would not allow it. For the smile would be a betrayal of sincerity and this moment held too much within it to allow such a ruin.

Sherlock relaxed and ran his hands over John's shoulders and up to the sides of his neck. He leaned in, a kiss hanging between them. But it would never come to fruition. 

"This is wrong," he said, "I could hurt you. I was going to...hurt you," he sat back once more his palms wringing into his eyes.

"You stopped, Sherlock. Look, I know you wouldn't hurt me and I think you know that too," John tried to convince him, but something was causing him to have a difficult time fully convincing himself.

"I have to solve this," Sherlock whispered, his pain-filled voice giving out on him.

Before John could respond, he leapt off of the end of the bed and hurried out of the door. The other man was left sitting alone and found himself, once again, utterly at a loss.


	5. True As It Can Be

The next day came with a flurry of snowfall. The lands surrounding the castle were covered in a thin blanket of white. John found Sherlock near midday awalk in the frozen gardens. Though the landscape was wrapped in a bitter cold, the stubborn roses refused to yield. Bright and smiling, they mustered their strength and basked in the cool sunlight. Eyes as frozen blue as their backdrop examined scarlet petals donned with fresh white snowflakes. It was an odd sight. Unexplainable in the consulting detective's mind, which was also an uncannily uncommon occurrence. Though in this case, he was becoming accustomed to uncommon and uncanny.

"So..." John began, shuffling his feet.

"Yes," it was not a question.

"What?"

"The answer to your question," Sherlock said without looking up, "the answer is yes."

John chuckled, "And what was it I was meant to have asked?"

Sherlock stood up straight and looked to his friend. His hair, though uncharacteristically long, was managed and pulled back with a blue ribbon. Odd. Though he remained somewhat stooped, his face was shaven and he wore a new set of clothing. This set was obviously from the wardrobe in the secret room as the design and fine threads could only be the handy work of a time long ago. Strange. Why Sherlock was wearing yet another outfit of the former master of the house was unknown to John, but in this instance, he dare not ask. For it was, among all other present matters, a very unimportant point. Nonetheless, it was duly noted.

"You were going to ask where I have been all night followed by have I found anything of importance. Since the first question is of no consequence and leads into the answer of the second I feel it prudent to skip the small talk and inform you that I have indeed solved the case."

"You have?" John asked incredulously.

"Of course I have," he replied mildly affronted, "I told you it was in the journal. All we needed to do was go further, and there it was," Sherlock walked around the rose bush where they had been standing and along down the winding gravel path.

John sighed and chased after him. He had been doing that a lot recently. Though he actually took a sort of comfort in it as it was one of the few ordinary occurrences of late, "So? Let's have it. What is going on?"

"The only true account of what happened the night of the murder was in Lawrence Hawkes journal. In reading this, I would normally have been inclined to say that he suffered from some form of delusion. However, being that there have been numerous murders since, and including my own altered state, I must conclude that the account is, at least in part, true," he explained.

"Ok, I thought you were going to skip the small talk," John shot back.

Sherlock gave him a scathing glare, but continued, "Love, John. What was missing from every case, what was missing from Lawrence Hawkes. There was no love in their hearts, be it romantically put, and they died for it."

John stopped walking, "You can't die from a lack of love. Heart break, perhaps, over time. Given the other accounts, this was something that came on suddenly. Lawrence Hawkes was certainly not heartbroken. He was just a bit of an arse."

Sherlock stopped as well and turned to look back at John, "He was cursed," he paused as John sighed with disbelief, "The old woman who came to the door, she asked him for help in exchange for a small token of gratitude and he refused her. He threw the gift out into the night. Why do you think the roses surround the house? They grow and bloom at times when all others would not. They guard this house like they are warding off apathy and emptiness. That's why not all of the occupants have come to the same end. When Lawrence Hawkes refused the woman, he says that she shed her haggard appearance and a beautiful young lady appeared in her place. He tried to apologize, but it was too late. She saw there was no love in his heart. She cursed him so that his outside would match his inside; a beast, ugly and prone to rage. He locked himself away after that and would see no one. He did not die that night, though the accounts were modified to say as much. The reality was much worse. He did not eat nor sleep. Try as they might, the servants could not get him to come out of his room. Even his fiancée tried, and she payed for it with her life. To spare the family name, the loyal house staff made the story a mystery, for it was not completely a lie. They did not know what had happened to make their master act so strangely. And there it sat, the truth was walled up inside of a scarlet leather journal in a hidden room. But now it has been discovered..."

"This is ridiculous. Ok, let's pretend this is all true. The question still remains, what do we do with it?" John interrupted.

"It was long ago. I don't think it makes much difference."

"I meant about resolving this. To Hell with the journal. All of these people died from this curse...I can't even believe I'm saying this...and you're next if we don't figure out how to stop it. Jesus, I feel like I'm in some Disney fairytale," John ranted.

"Who?" Sherlock queried.

John rubbed his face in exasperation, "Focus, Sherlock. Why you? The others, if the account is right, would have had no love in their hearts, but you are not that way. I don't care how many times you profess to be a high-functioning sociopath...why would you be affected?"

"I'm not a loving person John...except with certain people. And at that, it has only been since...it has only been relatively recent," he sighed, "John, the woman told Lawrence that the only way for him to break the curse was to learn to love, but it was not enough to stop at that. He had to earn someone's love in return," he ran his hands through his hair, "True love."

The garden fell into a knowing silence. 

Sherlock, his eyes averted, stepped over to one of the blood-red roses crowned with snow. He was pensive and disquieted. His next words were brought forth low and full of loathing, "What is it..." he caressed the delicate petals, causing the snowflakes to melt and fall away. His touch was soft at first, "...that I am meant to do?" He gazed at the snickering flower. It hid secrets behind those velvety petals, which would not be given up easily. He regarded it accusingly, "Have I truly learned to love? Has the beast found love within his heart, if I may be so metaphorical? What is it that I am meant to prove to you?" His voice became a growl, his touch firming. The petals were crushed between gripping fingers, "And what happens when all of the petals fall!" With that he twisted the bloom from it's stem, his face mirroring the action. The disgust, the anger, the rage was coming back. He squeezed his hand shut, destroying the rose to keep himself from destroying anything else. His eyes tightly shut, he took a deep breath. The fury began to subside. As he opened his hand, the petals blew away with a light gust of winter's wind. Only red streaks of blood remained striping his palm and fingers, a single thorn still lodged in the flesh. The rose had taken it's revenge for his disrespect and wrath.

John was by his side directly, checking the hand. He carefully pulled the thorn away and covered the damaged palm with a handkerchief.

"The petals aren't going to fall. We are going to figure something out," he patted at Sherlock's hand with the soft cloth. Outwardly, he was calm and collected. Inside his stomach was consumed with knots.

"What could we possibly do?" Sherlock asked. The question was most uncharacteristic and more than a bit unnerved.

"Whatever it takes," he replied with assurance.

~~~~~

Later that day, Sherlock again disappeared. This time, John found him curled up asleep on the bed in his room. It was very unlike him to rest in the middle of the day, especially during a case. Although, most times he was not the one who was the case. The thin form lay silhouetted in the ivory cotton sheets, his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath. His face was blessedly peaceful; he looked beautiful and statuesque even in sleep. But for how long? How was he going to help his best friend? How long until the control would leave him completely? And what would be done then? Taking him away from here would only land him in an institution until the inevitable happened. No, the curse must be dealt with here and now. Lost in his thoughts, John did not notice that a pair of heavy sapphire eyes were now staring at him. A hand came from beneath the sheet, extending outward with hope. Those eyes were pleading, almost scared. He had never seen this look within them before. It was his way of seeking help, for the road he faced was not one that could be traversed alone.

What John did next, he could not account for. He took the outstretched hand and slid into bed next to Sherlock. They lay there, warm and close. They were both thinking the same thing, although neither one would voice it. Why was this happening? How would they satisfy the curse? How deep the love and of what nature? How could something like this be possible outside of Grimm and Anderson? 

Sherlock kept his hand over John's, transfixed at the contact. There was never much contact, not with John, nor with others as well. Occasionally someone would give him a hug, but he never could respond fast enough to make it proper. It always ended up stiff and awkward. Perhaps that is why he had given up human contact all together. Between the unpredictable tactile outbursts and the emotions involved, it seemed to be rather a weakness and more complicated than its worth. But not with John. John was different. He had long admitted to himself that he, in fact, loved John. But he could not answer whether or not it was anything more. People loved many things in many ways. How was he to know if this was the way the Enchantress had meant when she had uttered her malediction centuries before? And what of John? He was sure that John had some sort of love for him, no one else would suffer his inclinations otherwise. John had never said anything in regards to this. Due to his current state, he would have to conclude that it was not the true love that would save his life. Though maybe an act of love would, he thought, isn't that what fanciful stories and movies would have us believe? People showed love to each other physically, kissing, holding, and such. Sherlock was not particularly disposed to it, but had made the effort a few times. It was not wholly unpleasant and as the both of them held each other's regard, it may work.

Without uttering a word, Sherlock removed his hand from John's and slid it up to caress his face. The look that appeared was that of confusion, trepidation, but not repulsion, and so he continued. He ran his fingers through John's blond hair. It was a move he had seen in many of John's crap movies. People enjoyed it and it was affectionate. John shifted and cleared his throat, seeing where this might be headed. He was unsure, but he could figure why Sherlock was trying it. There was something between them; there always had been. He was not quite sure what it was, but he knew the silent agreement was that it was to remain unspoken. Though he could not remember agreeing to the stipulation. He loved Sherlock. Random behaviour and insane deductions aside, he would do anything for him. But did that mean he was in love with Sherlock? Wasn't that what the enchantment had required? His heart was beating wildly in his chest and he was doing his best to stay collected, but he felt as he had the night before. He was not sure if what he was thinking was wrong, for him or Sherlock. Though soon it may not matter, either path could prove ruinous.

"So, we are doing this?" John's voice was barely above a whisper.

Sherlock now looked deep into his eyes, "This may seem crazy, but it's crazy and it's true. I know you can save me, John. You're the only one who can. You're the only one who...," he stumbled, "You have already done it once. I have every confidence that you can do it again," but there was hesitation behind the look of hope on his face.

"Will this work?" The doctor's eyes were averted.

"I don't know," came the quiet and uncertain reply. Sherlock's face was solemn and he looked down at the sheets they rested on.

"Shall we try a kiss then?" John answered hesitantly, "Do this in steps..." he moved closer until his face was centimeters away, then he moved a little more. This kiss was not the passionate event that you see in famous paintings and artwork. It was slow, chaste, and fraught with ambivalence. 

They parted.

Sherlock's eyes remained shut, tightly shut. The look let John know that it had not worked. His heart sank a bit. He was unsure as to what he should do next and how far to go. This all suddenly felt like a bad work of fiction, a scandalous penny dreadful in which the whole story was one plot device to move the characters relationship to the erotic. Sex to save them. Yet here they were, running out of time with only a fanciful theory to work off of. Sherlock was fading. The changes were becoming more apparent, the rage more uncontrollable. Whatever this was, fairytale, penny dreadful, or plain strange reality, it was happening. And John could not allow it.

He sat up, pulling off his jumper and shirt and discarding them on the floor beside the bed, "Sit up," he commanded gently. Sherlock's stunned look was comical as he had obviously not expected the brash movement. His eyes feasted over John's chest and arms, fit as they were. Sherlock moved to rest on one elbow. John reached for him with a trembling hand. The contact was soft, affectionate, if not comforting. His thin chest rose and fell with hastened breath and heartbeats that came pounding more heavily than the iron knocker adorning the entrance to the castle. He came to sit in front of the blond man, who slowly wrapped one leg over the both of his. John straddled him wearing nothing but his blue jeans, settling diffidently down on his lap. He paused, not knowing if the next move should be his. He wanted to say something, but he did not know what that something should be. The intention was clear however, and Sherlock pushed himself up to bring them closer. It was yet another approval and John found himself wanting it. He realized that he wanted this to be ok. Leaning forward, his arms coming to rest beside the ribs of his conquest, John came desperately close to another kiss. But Sherlock would not relent. Leaning back, he teased him, turning his head so that his long curls brushed John's face and he could smell the cologne misted across his neck.

John sighed, "...don't do that," he whispered to the warm silence of the room.

"And this," Sherlock whispered back as he caught John's ear with his lips.

His breath hitched hard in his chest and his hips reflexively bucked. From there, the world came to a scathing halt. It seemed no time at all and Sherlock was surging forward, pinning John down. This time, he did not mind so much. The feeling of the lithe frame nestled between his legs felt right and his own body responded swiftly. There was no doubt that his arousal could be felt, though it was not out of place next to Sherlock's. They felt each other. Sherlock moved forward in one slow, hard stroke of his body. John moaned. The sensation was incredible. He had never thought that lying with a man could feel this good. But this was not just a man, it was Sherlock. It was a man whom he had shared adventure, danger, and maybe a little hope, spread over a tray of tea and chocolate biscuits.

It was fine, it was all fine. He remembered those words, spoken over a candlelit table the first time they took a case together. Then, it had been an attempt to settle the tension. He supposed it was the same now as well. John was abruptly torn from his thoughts as Sherlock's knees rose up under him and cradled his hips. It was an unfamiliar feeling. The smaller man's legs were now astride pale ribs, trapping them between his thighs. He gave up control in order to explore the newfound possibilities. But it was not enough. In fact, it enticed his partner further. Sherlock recoiled and deftly began working at the opening of John's pants, the movements frantic. 

Sherlock could not stop himself. The apprehension was gone. John's control was his and he wanted to touch, he needed to touch. All of the skin he could see, he needed it to be his. An instinct, previously untapped, surfaced. He wanted this, the beast wanted this. But he would not allow the beast to have John. John was his. He pulled the trousers down, discarding them off the side of the bed. The army doctor was now spread out before him, arms raised above his head. Sherlock felt dizzy, his vision tunneling. He grabbed John's hips, squeezing his fingers over bone and flesh.

Before another second passed, he looked to John. It was the first real look since this episode had begun. It was clear, clever, and salacious. His eyes lowered then, back to the hips he held in his grasp. His hands moved up and behind his back then. John arched beautifully and Sherlock's head dipped down, allowing his lips to trace hot circles on the skin of his stomach. John's erection ached, hard and weeping between them. Sherlock pulled back, once again laying John down against the sheets. He knelt on the bed before him and slowly worked himself free of the confines of the last of his clothing. 

John was on his elbows now, watching Sherlock intently; his eyes roamed over the fit body. Now it was his turn. He sat up and cupped the angled face, tracing up and down those perfect cheekbones. His imploring was tender and Sherlock found himself falling back against the pillows as John made a line of soft kisses down his stomach. Eventually, he came to the coarse curls at the top of his groin and paused. It became blindingly clear through the wave of endorphins clouding his mind that he had never done this before. He had seen it done, and it had been done to him. He supposed in that moment that it could not be that difficult and mimicking the acts he had witnessed would be the most proper course. He drew up beside the length of Sherlock and allowed his tongue to rove over the tip. Sherlock gasped and spread his legs a bit wider, allowing John as much access as he desired. He liked that. John licked up and down, taking one bollock into his mouth and slowly, gently rolling it side to side with his tongue. He remembered how wonderful this felt and hoped he was giving the same pleasure to his companion. Recalling how delicate the maneuver was, he ever so cautiously sucked over the bollock and dropped it back. The noise it made elicited a moan from Sherlock and John noticed that he was now shaking with need. He wrapped his fingers around the hard cock before him and began to pump, his thumb sliding over the top as he spit on it. The wetness spread over the length and Sherlock arched his back in a most lovely way. If John's own need had not brought him back from his thoughts, he may have finished his lover off then and there, for the sight would have been well worth it. But his desire overrode it now. He went down on Sherlock, taking him fully into his mouth and scraping the head along the back of his throat. The gag reflex suppressed, the thick saliva it created emptied down onto the quivering parts below him. He sucked a few more times, spitting and running his fingers from arse to bollocks. Sherlock was ready. They both were trembling. John's hands now slick, he slowly pushed a stout middle finger into the tight ring. 

Sherlock gasped again. He had not felt the sensation in so long. His mind was accepting, but his body had not yet caught up and the intrusion burned within him. John was gentle though, and he worked him expertly. John had never been with another man, that much Sherlock knew, but he had obviously had some experience in this area. Well, of course he had, but more than just in the medical arena. And he liked it. Perhaps John had never reached a conclusion as to why, but he truly enjoyed every moment of the act. And it showed. 

"Oh God, Sherlock," he moaned into the air, his eyes closed as his ministrations advanced. He slipped in another finger, and then another, imagining it was himself. He stroked Sherlock and Sherlock responded. His cock ached something awful. He had imagined this once, maybe twice, but that was all he would own up to. Each time could not compare to the sight, the smell, the taste, and the feeling that this moment bore.

"John," he panted, "John, please. Now John," he begged. His long arm reached where John held his cock prisoner. He stilled the hand and tugged. John removed his fingers from every part of the detective and moved up on the bed with compliance.

"We need a little more lube before I can have you," John's voice rumbled in his throat and made Sherlock shiver with anticipation. He had never heard a desire-slicked voice come out of his flatmate. It was intoxicating. So was the next move John made. He knelt and then straddled Sherlock's neck and shoulders, his own cock painfully hard and hovering before Sherlock's clever mouth.

"Take it," John commanded.

Sherlock did as he was told, reveling in the marvelous submission. He took John into his mouth and made a noise that caused John to pitch forward and grasp the headboard. His knuckles went white as Sherlock licked and sucked him. His hips could not be controlled. They bucked into the warm, wet mouth. It felt amazing. He thrust faster, thoroughly fucking Sherlock's savvy mouth. The man did not seem to mind in the slightest and even brought his hands to firmly grasp his arse, encouraging the act further.

"No...oh God Sherlock...I can't," he stopped and broke away. The next movement was so quick one might have not seen it happen and thought that John simply appeared between Sherlock's trembling legs. He lined himself up, spitting in his hand and rubbing it on his own cock. He played at the opening, moving the head of his slicked member back and forth over it.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed.

This time, John remained silent at the approval and answered with his entrance. Nerves all over his body exploded and he shut his eyes to stop the world from spinning. The cry that rang out from his lover resonated in his ears and he thought the silvery sound may never leave them. It was the sound of a warm fire in the sitting room, the sound of a deliberately messy experiment in the kitchen going awry, of tea kettles and phone calls from The Yard. It was the sound that belonged to 221B, a small, unassuming flat in the middle of London where he had found home.

The minutes that passed after that could not really be measured in any sort of quantifiable method. They rolled on and on, but somehow did not seem to be enough. The pair moved together. Sherlock's hips moved up to meet John's more enthusiastically than perhaps John had expected, and it was perfect. He lined up his body with the lissome form and their sweat combined allowed for fluid motion. Though the room was chilled, the heat of exertion and passion flooded around the bed and they were not at all cold. Sherlock growled and bit at the flesh of John's neck. It produced a feral emotion in the army doctor and his murmur sounded like something heavy being dragged over sharp rocks.

"Yes...just like that...just..." 

Sherlock bit down hard again at the point where John's neck met his shoulder, threatening to tear flesh. It was all too much and John felt himself falling over the edge. He slammed into Sherlock forcefully, wrenching teeth from skin. Sherlock's head flew back as his climax flowed through him. The pressure enveloping John and the sight of Sherlock's orgasm sent his own spiraling into the night. With a mighty moan he stilled and then collapsed, spent and shuddering. The whole of him pressed against his lover.

"Sherlock." 

If his breath was hot, then his voice was the heat of the sun on a summer's day in the country. It pulled the other man away. Away from the manor, away from England; somewhere where there was nothing but this. Nothing but the feeling of home and warmth. Where fields stretched on forever and the sky was not a hinderance, but rather a calling. In this world, you could go anywhere; you could be everywhere. And that was unquestionably where Sherlock was in this moment. It was the last moment, and then there was nothing but shallow breathing and a whispering wind outside the frozen windows of the room.


	6. The Curse Remains

The brightness of the morning sun shining through the window was not what awoke John the next morning. He lay with his back to it, in fact. But his dreams had been erratic and his mind wanted so desperately to wake that it would not leave him alone to sleep. When his eyes opened he caught the sound of curtains swishing and saw a shadow upon the wall. He turned, the soft sheets pulling around his body. 

Sherlock stood, or rather, he stooped at the tall window. He was bare from the waist up, skin glowing in the morning sun. His black trousers were in a stark contrast to it and only served to make the scene that much more ethereal. Long arms ended at strong hands that grasped the drapes at his sides. He was turned, looking out at the extensive property behind the castle. John could not be sure, but it did seem as if his hair had grown yet again. The hair on his face and neck had doubled since last night when it was only barely a five o'clock shadow. When he noticed John awake, he tilted his head to the side, his eyes barely coming to meet the other pair that now stared at him questioningly from the disarranged bed. There was a slight redness to his lips that trickled down from the corner of his mouth. Blood. Not new blood however; it had dried. John brought his hand to inspect the mark that had resulted from the previous night's activities. The skin had been broken. It was tender, the tear barely begun to heal, and it too sported dried drops of scarlet.

"I am...sorry," Sherlock's voice, deep and forlorn, resounded in the room as if it were a concert hall.

"It's only a scratch," the good doctor reassured him.

"That is not what I meant," he answered softly.

"I know," John murmured.

Sherlock turned back to his station before the glass, "Please, don't look at me."

"It didn't work then," John said quietly. The fact had been echoing in his mind despite all efforts to ignore it.

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice now resigned, "It did not."

~~~~~

The very night in which the two were testing out their theory, a small group was formulating a few of their own not five leagues away. The pub was as busy as it could be in such a modest town. The fire burned brightly and music careened about the lively room. Gaston, as always, sat in the large leather chair near the hearth. His friends sat with him, the triplets keeping nearest, of course.

"No one has seen either of them since they headed up there. It's just not right," he suggested.

"What do you think is going on, Gaston?" A short, rotund man to his left chimed in.

"Another murder," the whole of the room stopped, a few gasps heard around the crowd, "It's happened before, perhaps not in our time, but we all know that place is cursed."

"Maybe they just figured out what is wrong with it and left. No reason for them to stop back by here," the blond bartender offered.

Gaston shook his head, "They both had cars, they both would have driven back through town. Someone would have recognized them; they don't exactly blend in. No, they're still up there. And if they are still alive, they are a threat."

"Now, now," another older man piped up from the bar, "I am sure they are alive and well. Besides, how could they be a threat to us? Aren't we getting a little carried away with this guesswork?"

"They all go crazy. We've all heard the stories and read the articles. They all end up as twisted beasts, and this one is no different. If anything, they are even more of a threat. Did you see the first one? Strange look about him. Not normal. What if this time he decides that one murder is not enough? He could come down here in the night and take any one of us. They could make off with your children, wreak havoc on our village! It's time to take some action, boys. Who's with me?" Gaston entreated to the crowd.

A buzz was set throughout the bar, the ponderings of inebriation mixed with fear and upset. Merely the suggestion of danger was enough to begin the dance. These things he spoke of had never happened before, however the castle did have a dark reputation. Possibilities wound themselves around the minds of the townsfolk like ghastly tendrils. Anxiety made it's presence known and soon the buzz turned to uproar. Cries to action made their turns about the room, and Gaston stood in the middle of it. His worry for his town was honest and true. He had purposefully rallied the pub to march, however he did not want this to get out of hand. He held up his hands to signal for silence. Gaston would lead the people to the castle and find out once and for all what manner of curse lived there.

"Lock your doors...tomorrow we leave at first light."

~~~~~

The atmosphere in the kitchen was pensive. The pair sat in silence over their morning tea. It was early, but neither had been able to go back to sleep after the events of the night and subsequent realization of failure. There was no regret, only sorrow, vexation, and a healthy dose of mixed feelings. John fidgeted with his cup, a white porcelain bauble with pink and blue checkering the lip. It's only imperfection was a small chip in the gold rim. It provided him a focal point, an escape, and he was currently pouring himself into it. Sherlock's movements were languid, not at all his norm, but what was? 

These past few weeks had not been the norm, and now they were facing a challenge that neither was fully processing. For who could process such a dilemma? Curses, enchantments, magic roses surrounding a castle far, far away. It was nonsense, and the pair knew it. Yet, the sun still shone on the ill-kept manor. It's large stone walls stood the test of time, existing in one and then the next. The air that chilled those walls turned stale as it entered the closed off rooms and dark hallways. It was stagnant, refusing to move on with the passing years. Perhaps that is how the consulting detective and the former Captain became inexorably caught up in this nonsensical situation. Air was never suspect in the beginning. It was an observer, an invisible companion to any crime scene until proven malignant.

John breathed in deeply, preparing to speak though no words entered his mind. Then a hard knock came booming through the house. John and Sherlock's heads sprang to attention. They looked to the door, then to each other in unison. Odd, they were not expecting anyone. 

John reached the large wooden door first and unlocked the iron bolt. What greeted him next was completely unforeseen. A crowd of a dozen or so people stood outside the manor, some at the bottom of the stairs, some littered upon them. Some he recognized from the pub and some he did not. Some wore faces of stone and mortar, and some fear and apprehension. The one thing he could not help but notice was the leader of the group standing before him; red shirt opened at the neck, brown pants sporting a gun holstered and half hidden at his side, his boots shined as if they had never seen a rainy day. He remembered the man well, and the superior and confrontational look he held was no different than the evening they had met in the pub. 

"What's all this?" John said, holding his ground in front of the door.

"You're alive..." Gaston started.

"Of course I'm bloody alive. Now what can I do for," he gestured to the townsfolk, "all of you."

"Where is your friend?" He asked, ignoring the doctor's question.

In an instant, the heavy door was pulled open the rest of the way and Sherlock appeared looking intense and agitated. The crowd took an instinctual step back, but Gaston's eyes were the only thing that betrayed his particular resolve. Sherlock stepped forward. He was dressed in black trousers and the same navy and silver jacket from the night in the ballroom. A white shirt accompanied it and he would have appeared quite spectacular if not for the disheveled look plaguing his form. The townspeople gasped, for he was much changed.

"Why have you come?" His tone was low and warning. He took another step, "You've come to see me, have you? To see if the beast was still alive?" His voice was growing as was his stance. John held out his arm as if to calm the situation, though he feared this may be impossible.

"You were meant to have solved the mystery of this house and leave, but here you are, and in worse condition. In the interest of the safety of this town, we have come for you," Gaston announced firmly.

Sherlock growled his response, "The mystery has not been solved."

John could see this was going nowhere good and stepped forward himself, putting a hand to Sherlock's chest to steady him. The detective faltered and leaned into the touch unwittingly. John caught the slight weakness and his shoulder dropped a bit allowing the strength of his body to bear more of the weight. The small wound on his shoulder reopened and the white open collared shirt had fallen to expose the angry bite mark, now dotting scarlet red drops over his skin. Gaston mounted the steps and pulled the collar further, but before he could examine the mark, Sherlock was upon him. With the strength of three men he held Gaston by his collar until his feet lifted from the floor.

"Don't touch him," he snarled, walking to the edge of the first step and holding the man over it, "Is this what you wanted to see?" He bellowed to the crowd, his eyes fierce and wild.

The people began to retreat. This was more than they had bargained for and things were getting a bit too real. If they had really thought this through, it would have been more prudent to allow the police to handle it. Though if they were honest, the only thing that seemed out of sorts was the detective, so any official involvement may not have been needed at this juncture. Sherlock stood tall, savage, and imposing in the morning sun. His impetus not to be challenged in that moment. He brought a now fearful Gaston close to his face and growled.

"Sherlock..."

The sound came from behind him where John lay on the stone entry. He had not noticed in the rush of action that he had knocked his partner to the ground. He glanced back. John was splendid. He was sprawled out upon the grey stones, his blue jeans hugging his legs, his knees bent allowing his muscular thighs to be seen quite well. The white collared shirt hung open to his stomach as the buttons were wrenched off in the altercation. Sherlock was paralyzed at the sight. John's face pleaded with him. It pulled him back from the precipice, reminding him that his life was worth more. That fact sank in even more profoundly because of John's sacrifice. It was worth more because John deemed it so, because he had put Sherlock's life before all else. Because he had held him, touched him, let him know that when it came to saving his life, nothing was too great to ask. Sherlock's face softened at this momentarily before he turned back to his captive and said in a most restrained aggressive cadence.

"Get out."

He dropped the man then, who failed to fully catch himself as he tumbled down three of the unforgiving stone stairs. Sherlock went to John and knelt next to him. John gave him a look of reassurance and Sherlock relaxed, breathing normally for the first time since they had heard the resounding knock of the townspeople echo in the stillness. John then noticed the slant in his eyes and the weary look that accompanied it. This look he had seen before. Sherlock was using every bit of strength to hide the fact that he was about to collapse. John jumped up and put his arms around the weakened man. Without as much as a sneer back at the dispersing crowd, he helped Sherlock back into the house, shutting and bolting the door behind them with a finality that could not be denied.


	7. The End

The world effectively shut out for the moment, he ushered the failing man toward the study where he could sit and be examined. Sherlock's footsteps were heavy, labored, and the arm slung over the shorter man's shoulders was a worrying burden. It was as if the last of his energy was being taken from him by some force beyond their reckoning. In the middle of the marble foyer, he wilted. Down to one knee he fell, humbled in position.

"John," he rasped, "Air. I need air," his breath was short, "Take me to the veranda, by the gardens."

John's faced was contorted with worry. As the front was not an option and the veranda not far off, he acquiesced to Sherlock's request. They stumbled through the empty ballroom. It seemed strange to be in there now. There was no music. The dance had faded back into the muraled walls. It was dim and solitary, as if the rest of the house had finally caught up to it. Nevertheless, they plodded through as if their lives depended on it, and one of theirs may have. The French doors opened with a whoosh and a barrage of fresh winter air; and for a moment, John thought it had revived the man at his side. 

But the relief was short lived. Sherlock's legs suddenly gave out from under him and he crumpled to the floor just beyond the flowing sheer curtains. They billowed and ran themselves over his deteriorating form. John was beside him, holding him, checking the eyes that rolled in his head, fingering the pulse at his neck.

It was erratic.

"Sherlock?" It was a spoken question, but his voice screamed urgency.

No response came. John checked his eyes again, pulling the lids back carefully. Those blue-green eyes that were always so clever and calculating were still unfocused. He sighed in frustration, his hand on the side of Sherlock's face. Then the eyes were upon him, focused and raging. He grabbed John's shirt and made as if to bring him down, but instead screamed, shaking and recoiling to the floor. Though his fingers had left the material of the white shirt behind, they still curled and shook. His whole body was racked with a searing pain and he coiled in on himself. It subsided, briefly, and John once again drew near, placing his hand on Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock," this time it was light, tender, and trepidatious.

"I won't do it. I will not let it happen," he cried softly.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock's eyes were turquoise when they rose to meet him, as an ocean when the sun shows through on a cloudy day, "I want to kill you," he choked out, once again grabbing the cloth of John's shirt. His hands intimated at roving further, but they were stayed and Sherlock remained in the fight.

"You're stronger than this. Fight it. If anyone can stop this, it's you," warm tears stung behind his eyes, "Baker Street is waiting for us. The work is waiting, Sherlock."

"Not for us..."

"You're right," he blinked back his tears now, for they threatened their appearance, "Not us. It's waiting for you...all of it."

"I will not kill him. I will not kill you, John...I will not...," the weak voice was barely above a whisper, and then those lovely eyes disappeared behind closed lids.

John turned him from his side onto his back, but his spine did not seem to want to straighten completely. His knees were slightly bent and his eyes shut tight. He seemed to be fighting something. John held his face.

"Sherlock, please," he said, "Look at me. Look at me!"

Once again, he did as was requested, overcoming the urges at war in his brain, "John...perhaps if I die..."

"No," John cut off bluntly, "No, no one..."

"It's the only logical conclusion to break the curse and our only choice now. Your death is unacceptable. And if you live, perhaps then all this would stop," he hypothesized, "If I give my life to spare yours... I would give my life for yours, John," his voice broke as he sank back down onto the hard stone. All strength was gone now, even the rage had subsided. His breathing was labored and John found that his pulse was slowing. John knelt over him, hands on his shoulders. Sherlock's eyes fluttered and went in and out of focus, as a camera running out of battery. The last petal was falling.

His long fingers rose weakly to meet John's cheek, "At least I got to be with you one time, at least I am here with you...at the end," his arm went slack then and fell to John's lap. He lay there unmoving on the cold, grey stone floor.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?!" He shook the other man by the shoulders, "Jesus," he held Sherlock's head, stroking his cheeks, "Wake up, stay with me...Sherlock, please," he gave one cheek a couple of light slaps, "No, no...come on! Wake up!" He fell backwards. A sinking feeling building in the pit of his stomach, "This isn't happening. How can this be real? There has to be a reason, something we missed," A shuddered breath and doctor mode kicked in. He was back over Sherlock, bringing himself face to face. He checked for breathing. It was there, but faint and slowing, "Sherlock, please," he begged, salty tears threatening the corners of his eyes, "Please don't leave," the tears won out and fell freely, marking the dying man's face with shining crystals of despair, "I love you."

The weight of his confession, great and mournful that it was, pulled him down to rest atop Sherlock's chest as it gave it's final release and stopped all together. He felt it. Deep inside him it felt true and horrific in it's ceasing. The world seemed to stop along with that breath and the silence, that should never have been there, was like a wave crashing around him. It was deafening, matched only by the sound of his own cries to the midday sun. He forgot everything then, clutching Sherlock and holding him tight to his chest. It occurred to him that perhaps, by some strange force, the one that made this nightmare a reality to begin with would transfer his life to the lifeless. If one chest heaved with enough sorrow, perhaps the other would hear and come to its rescue. These were thoughts that normally would not have entered the mind of a military physician in a moment such as this. However, the past few weeks had proven that normal was anything but, and what one sees may only be their truth due to a deplorable lack of visibility on the counterpart. Admitting the reality of this was not done lightly, but John in all his skepticism, saw it. The fantastic was here, not imprisoned in the delicate pages of a book nor on a parchment of whimsical prose.

Now they had seen it. And I say 'they' only because at that moment sparkling beams of light began to fall around the couple. And I say 'couple' because despite the distracting and blinding light surrounding the veranda, John came to feel the move of Sherlock's neck, then his shoulders. A deep breath followed and John found himself looking into the clever and tender sea-green eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Now it was his turn to stop breathing. Not in a troublesome way, but in the way in which one finds themselves bereft of air due to their lungs filling with raw emotion. He choked on whatever words may have thought they could sneak out. There was just no place for them here.

Sherlock raised his hand once more and caressed the side of John's face more vulnerably than he had ever witnessed from the man before. The pads of his fingers, and his palm, intimated at his longing. They pulled him down with barely a brush of skin and he found himself in a passionate kiss. Tears of relief streamed from both pairs of closed eyes, but it was of no matter.

When they parted, queries and thoughts hung in the glittering air between them. John gazed at Sherlock as he never had before. The man's hair had somehow returned to its natural state, rings of auburn shining in the brilliance. He appeared clean-shaven, his skin luminous and smooth. The curve of his spine was gone and he lay relaxed and lanky upon John's knees. The doctor then noticed another happening that he could not understand, and frankly did not want to. He opened the navy jacket. The silver embroidery glimmered in the sunlight, and cast white freckles upon his cheeks. He felt along the unscathed chest, remembering the iodine and numerous wraps it had required after the incident in the woods. Though the wounds had begun to heal over the past few days, a wolf's claws would leave their mark. Now there were none. The skin was smooth and luminous.

John's hand came to rest over Sherlock's heart. A lump formed in his throat and he once again attempted to fight back tears. He failed miserably and shook with emotional release. 

"It wasn't enough," Sherlock looked into John's eyes, "It wasn't enough that I have loved you since the moment you first walked into the lab at Bart's. That I want you with me and I'm jealous when you're away. That I'd run into Hell and back if it happened that it was the only place offering the tea you prefer. But it wasn't enough. You had to love me in return."

"Why...why didn't you....I didn't know," John's voice was thick with emotion.

"Didn't you?" Came the reply.

He had. He had known for quite some time, but he could not bring himself to allow it. His mind would not allow him to think it true. And it was his uncertainty that had nearly cost Sherlock his life. Ashamed and sorrowful, he hung his head. Sherlock had almost died here, in his arms. If he had allowed it, if he had loved him like he wanted to, if he had allowed himself to believe it was all fine. If the night they shared had been one of passion and acceptance, rather than compliance and savage appetites, perhaps it would not have come to this. Why had he not been able to get past his reservations? Why could he not admit to himself that he was in love with him? That they were in love. Why had he not seen that when Sherlock had reached for him from behind the soft ivory sheets of the bed, that it was not a favor he was asking, but permission. Approval.

"I'm sorry," his sigh was racked with guilt, "Christ love, I am so sorry."

"Don't do that," Sherlock gently chided.

"I should have done more," he voice was so thin, it could have been made of crepe.

"Then do it now, John," came the deep voice mere centimeters from his ear, "Stay. Stay with me, always. Some days it won't come easy, some days it won't come hard. Some days it won't come at all, and these are the days that'll never end," he paused, smiled, and drew closer, "Love me, John, love me, please," the words rolled off his tongue sweetly, "Take me places I've never known...," he breathed.

"I can do that," John smiled, cupping the back of Sherlock's head, "I can do that."

Here now, the roses that climbed the auspicious walls of the castle leaned in and listened to the couple. They preened and smiled, closing their buds for a much deserved and much delayed rest. They would not bloom again until the spring, when flowers of their nature were meant to. And every year after that, they would take their leave of the walls and the garden to shy away from winter's chill. For there was no longer a reason to protect the air swirling around the halls of the once great manor. It was free to escape the sadness in which it had lain for so many centuries, to openly accept life and to come alive within.

~~~~~

The details of the days spent at the Hawkes manor were left to the silent walls and open pathways therein contained. The townsfolk did not speak of it, except amongst themselves. The realtor was happy in the knowledge that the curse was nothing more than a myth. The murders, being that they were explained to her in circles of information and facts, had her so confused by the end that she decided that all she required was the consulting detective's final word that the house was clear to sell. She left the flat none the wiser, as was the rest of the world. Fantastical events aside, life was back to normal.

Except for one thing. For it must be mentioned that fantastical events can lead to moments of unparalleled bliss for those that have the good fortune to discover them. And in this spirit, if one peered into the windows of 221B on any impossible and fantastical evening, one might just glance a couple mid-waltz. Music playing in their warm sitting room, a man and a beast dance and are taken away, back to an empty ballroom in a castle far, far away.

 

***Certain as the sun  
*****Rising in the East  
********Tale as old as time  
***********Song as old as rhyme

[](http://s345.photobucket.com/user/WhiteRose1013/media/1CF8F17B-4679-4583-9651-C139BF8C6B8F_zpsufybbrau.jpeg.html)


End file.
